


A Fool's Name For Fate

by elise_509



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Golden Age Hollywood, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-04-08 11:00:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 39,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4302264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elise_509/pseuds/elise_509
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s 1949. Hollywood’s system of powerful studios and contract stars is fading fast as a new decade looms. Tony Stark thinks he’s just the type of forward-thinking, madcap genius that can solve the dream factory’s woes, and maybe he can. </p>
<p>If not for a certain distraction named Steve Rogers, the golden boy who should clearly be twenty-feet high on the silver screen yet seems determined to stay hidden behind the scenes. Tony’s used to getting what he wants, but now he’s not sure what that is. Or rather, who that is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Set-up

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  [](http://elise-509.livejournal.com/384414.html)   
>  [Soundtrack Available for Download](http://elise-509.livejournal.com/384414.html)   
> 
> 
> * * *

“Looks like the Starks are comin’ back to Hollywood,” Bucky announces as he barrels in through the front door. He tosses a folded newspaper directly at Steve’s face. Steve can’t help but startle, and the line of his drawing jerks askew. Bucky flops onto the sofa with a self-satisfied smirk. He loosens his tie and then unbuttons his shirt collar, making himself perfectly comfortable. 

“Geez, Buck…” Steve mutters, frowning as he sets down his pen and then bends to pick up the newspaper from where it tumbled onto the ground. He curses the black smudges on his formerly pristine drawing that the newsprint left in its wake. Steve pushes back from his drafting desk and swivels to look at his best friend, feeling decidedly unfriendly at the moment. “That was two hours work.”

Bucky just shrugs, mustering up only a weak guilty look that fades quickly. He kicks his heels up on the armrest and Steve scowls at the dust shaking off his shoes and onto the faded but clean fabric. But he knows better than to think Bucky will apologize for anything – ruined drawing, ruined couch, or otherwise - so Steve sighs and reluctantly unfolds the newspaper, scanning the headlines for the story that Bucky apparently couldn’t wait to share. 

“ _Stark heir eyes Hollywood glory_ …” he murmurs to himself. Below the one-inch high bold print there is a photograph of a young man, crisply posed. He has a flashy devil-may-care grin that Steve has seen before on another man’s face.

“I didn’t even know Howard _had_ a son. Did you?” Bucky asks, digging into his front shirt pocket with his good hand and pulling out his package of cigarettes. He taps them on the back of the couch before flipping the lid with his thumb and pulling a cig out using his teeth.

“He might’ve mentioned it,” Steve mumbles distractedly as he goes back to skimming the three paragraphs, more of it seeming like idle gossip about a rich playboy with too much time on his hands than actual news. Since the war ended, it’s like these reporters have forgotten what’s worthy of ink. “What I _didn’t_ know was that Stark Industries stopped producing armaments. When did that happen?” 

“Eh, just recently? After Howard bought the farm, I guess. Instead of producing real bombs, the kid’s just going to make box office bombs,” Bucky quips, and Steve rolls his eyes at the lazy pun. Bucky takes the cigarette out of his mouth and sits up, evidently having more to offer on the subject than a lame joke. “You _know_ how it goes when these East Coast moneybags roll into town, Steve. They have no creativity, no inspiration, no idea how to make a decent picture. They just want a piece of the Hollywood pie and to see their name up on the big screen so they can brag to the young broads they want to trick into replacing their old wives. They got no idea how to be actual producers, all they do is get in the way.”

Bucky places his cigarette back between his lips, ceasing his tirade for a moment to stow the pack in his pocket and then flick open his silver lighter. He does all this so deftly; even though it’s been four years since the war ended, Steve never ceases to be amazed at how well Bucky’s been able to get on with the use of only one good arm. Steve’s got plenty of experience making do with a body that simply doesn’t want to cooperate, but losing a limb entirely is quite a different affair. 

Bucky mistakes Steve’s steady gaze as implied derision, as if Steve means to wordlessly question his stance on the subject.

“What? You don’t think this Stark’s gonna be another Hughes? That guy's already driving RKO into the ground and it's only been a year.”

Steve folds the paper and sets it aside before placing his hands on his knees. One would think Bucky was gunning to be the next studio head with the way he always harps on about these things. But the big honcho’s office is a lifetime away from the small little screenwriting bungalow Bucky and his partner, Natasha, share. 

“I have no clue. I don’t know anything about Anthony Stark. I barely even knew his father.”

“But…but he produced the stellar, remarkable, unforgettable _Captain America_ short reels!” Bucky grins widely, his teeth clenching down on the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. Steve cheeks flush in embarrassment even though those silly films were over years ago now. Bucky’s gotten enough mileage out of them that they should no longer matter, yet he still can make Steve turn pink at the mere mention of them. 

And it’s true, that Howard Stark had helped the OWI and Hollywood to finance some wartime propaganda, propaganda that Steve had in fact starred in. He’s not ashamed, per se, but there are other things he’d rather be remembered for than his brief - though ultimately useful - foray into acting.

Despite having developed into a stronger, taller version of his formerly weak and tiny self, Steve still found himself stamped 4F on account of the lengthy list of ailments that dogged him since childhood. During one of his many failed trips to the recruitment office, a casting director, a kind man by the name of Erskine, had been doing some recruiting of his own. Pretending to be war hero “Captain America” in cheesy matinee serials and bond drives hardly seemed a good substitute for actual service, but it eventually got him the ears of enough powerful men that could get his form stamped 1A no matter what the doctors said. Howard Stark had been one of those men. 

Considering he got to Europe just in time to personally pull Bucky from a POW camp, he’s thankful that his miserable excuse for a Hollywood career paved the way. But it doesn’t change the fact that he once marched around on stage firing dummy guns and throwing fake punches at Hitler impersonators, all while wearing tights. Nor does it stop Bucky from mocking him mercilessly for it. 

“Howard Stark provided funding and stage weapons, he wasn’t exactly in the film business.” Steve rubs his palm over his heated face as he turns away from his friend and back to the drawing board. “Once the war ended, I don’t think Howard had anything more to do with movies.”

Bucky climbs off the sofa and crosses the cramped room in a few wide paces, giving Steve the cigarette. He clamps his hand over Steve’s shoulder for a moment before passing toward the kitchen.

“Well, his kid caught the bug somehow and now we’re all going to have to deal with it.”

“You make it sound so personal, Buck,” Steve chuckles. He contemplates taking a drag of the cigarette, but stubs it out in the overflowing ashtray. Bucky opens the fridge and pulls out a beer, opening it using the edge of the countertop in that way that Steve hates. It gouges the tile and it’s already beat to hell as it is. “It’s not like we’re ever crossing paths with the man.”

Bucky tosses the cap into the air and snatches it open palmed, holding his beer tightly with the metal prosthesis that serves as his other hand. With his thumb he sharply flicks the cap in Steve’s direction, his aim impeccable as always. Steve deflects it easily toward the threadbare throw rug. It rolls down onto the worn hardwood floor with a metallic rattle. 

“Ah ah ah, read the article again, Rogers. Mr. Independent Producer still needs the studios, and guess which one he’s partnering with first?”

Steve doesn’t bother looking, as Bucky’s comment serves well enough to clear up the mystery. 

“It’s just one project. Doesn’t mean it’ll affect you and Nat, doesn’t mean it will affect me and my crew.” 

“Mark my words, Steve – the guy thinks he’s gonna be the next Selznick and you remember what happened last time Selznick came around. Getting through the _war_ was easier.” 

“And here I thought Natasha cured you of your tendency toward hyperbole.”

“You think I’m being overdramatic but I’m actually making an astute prediction of the months to come. Tony Stark’s gonna mess with our livelihood – hell, our _lives_ , even.”

“Bet you a dollar that neither of us ever meet the man.”

“You’re on.” Bucky sets his half-finished beer on the small table beside Steve’s drawing board, evidently meaning for Steve to drink the rest. “I’m gonna go meet Nat, Clint and Sam down at The Shield for a nightcap, you wanna come?”

“Like to, but I -“

“Have to work, yeah, yeah…” Bucky speaks over him, sounding tired and bored. He grabs his coat from where he’d carelessly tossed it over the piano bench and throws it over his shoulder. “One of these days, Steve, I’m gonna catch you having fun.”

“Let me know when that happens,” Steve replies, turning back to his set design and picking up his pen. The drawing can probably still be salvaged if he can figure a way to mask that errant mark, erase the newsprint smudges. Behind him, Bucky sighs, but Steve doesn’t look. 

“One of these days,” Bucky says again, the door closing quietly behind him as he leaves.

*******

Tony pushes through the wide double doors, pulling off his dark sunglasses and slipping them into his front breast pocket.

“Tell me again why I’m doing this?”

“What do you mean, why are you doing this. This was your idea.” Pepper keeps pace with him as he stalks down the long hallway, pencil scratching shorthand furiously over her steno pad as she jots down notes for the day.

“I don’t mean this, like, _this_ , overall, I mean _this_ in particular. Who set up this meeting? I don’t want this guy, don’t want him directing this picture, don’t see why I have to sit down with him and pretend otherwise. It’s a waste of my time.” 

“The man’s a genius.”

“ _I_ am a genius. He’s just made some decent pictures.” Tony waves the idea off disdainfully. 

“He has six Academy Awards. How many do you have?”

Tony stops, turning to face her with exasperated impatience. 

“He likes expensive location shooting out in the middle of the god forsaken desert. Who in their right mind likes the desert? I’ve seen enough desert to last me two lifetimes.” He arches an eyebrow at her before turning on his heel and marching onward, tossing another criticism over his shoulder. “I also hear he’s a mean old drunk.”

“So, may I point out, are you.”

“Ah ah ah, I’m a drunk, but I’m not a mean old one. I actually think I’m quite fun. Not to mention young and devastatingly handsome.”

“We’ll have to agree to disagree,” Pepper states as she opens the heavy door to Tony’s new office, pausing to let him enter first. She closes the door behind them, listening to hear the latch catch shut. Sighing heavily, she looks down at the schedule as Tony circles around the large mahogany desk and sits down in the expensive handcrafted leather chair he’d had shipped directly from Italy. “He is expecting to see you in half hour’s time. Shall I cancel?”

Tony taps his hands against his desk, fingers dancing over its surface. He’s not sure what he’s looking for – his reading glasses, maybe? He pats his breast pocket – no, those are his sunglasses – then his other pockets. 

“Top drawer, center. Next to the pens.” Pepper informs him as she saunters toward the desk. Tony pauses in his search to watch her move; she’s still breathtakingly beautiful, after all, even if the way her lips pull into a tight, unflattering line gets more severe as the day goes on. 

“Smile for me, would you? You look positively dour.” Tony says as he pulls open the drawer and finds his glasses right where Pepper said they’d be. He slips them on and looks back up, Pepper’s sarcastic grin all the more crisp and clear. “Aw, Pep, at least pretend like you mean it.”

“I’ll smile when there’s something to smile about, Mr. Stark.”

“ _Mr. Stark._ Oh dear. I’ve gone and done it now. You know, Pepper, smiling is the Hollywood way. There are many lovely young ladies who would _love_ to work as my executive secretary, there would be a lot of smiling, I guarantee it.”

“And I’m sure smiling is all they’d do.”

“I resent the implication.” He doesn’t really. It’s probably true enough, although his love life has been remarkably uneventful since he and Pepper decided to keep things professional and friendly rather than romantic. Well, since Pepper decided. Tony had nodded at some point in that conversation, just to make it mutual. “Just once I’d like to see you turn that frown upside down, Miss Potts.” 

“Tony, you would despise anyone who actually smiled _just_ because you told them to. Mindless sycophants aren’t your style. It’s pretty much the only reason I keep working for you.”

“And here I thought it was because I was so dashing,” Tony smirks, and then sighs theatrically. “Very well then. Tell me, what else is on the agenda for this afternoon besides that meeting that is now cancelled?”

“Oh, so we’ve decided to cancel, good to know. Apart from that, you have a development meeting at three o’clock, and Mr. Hogan should be delivering those items from storage that you requested.”

“You can call him Happy, Pepper, I know you two are dating.” He kicks back, propping his feet up on his desk as he shoots Pepper a knowing wink. “Courting. Going steady. Whatever you kids call it these days.”

“I prefer to keep my relationship with Mr. Hogan –”

“And what items from storage?”

“Your father’s film collection. The negatives and prints from his wartime work?” Tony knows what she means, but he keeps his face blank, feigning disinterest. He folds his arms behind his head, leaning back and pretending to stifle a yawn. “The _Captain America_ footage? You specifically asked –”

“No, I think I specifically asked for you to take all that out and burn it. Light it up.” He sits back upright, searching his desk for a moment until he locates the fresh box of cigars that his best friend, Rhodey, brought back from his last trip to Cuba. “Just get rid of it, I don’t want to see that shit.”

“I am not burning the _Captain America_ films, Tony.”

“What was that about mindless sycophants? How did they get such a bad rap?” Tony decides against lighting the cigar now; he takes out his sunglasses and stows the cigar in its place. He’ll need it and a good glass of scotch in order to wind down after the development meeting; his budget man, Coulson, is intent on shooting down all of his grand plans purely on the basis of monetary concerns. 

Tony’s tried to fire him twice already, but Pepper always hires him back. He wonders what people would think if they knew his secretary secretly runs his company. Or maybe they already know and are just playing along with the great farce. 

In the end, he doesn’t mind. He’s a big idea guy. Well, he’s a details guy too. He can see the grandiose big picture and the nuances of the small picture, but Pepper’s just really good at getting everything out of his way so he doesn’t get bogged down in the daily minutiae that don’t directly relate to whatever’s on his mind at the moment. 

She has likened it to clearing the area before a bomb goes off, but he thinks that metaphor’s just a leftover from when she used to work for his father. At the very least, he’s sure he’s a better boss than his old man. 

He doesn’t make money by finding more effective ways to kill people, for one. 

“Are we doing this development thing here or at Lew’s? He’s the agent, he should come here.” 

“We’re going there.” Off Tony’s displeased look, Pepper gives him one of her own. “Face facts, Tony, you don’t have a name here. If you were making weapons and we were in Washington, then yeah, everyone would come to you. But you’re nothing more than a dollar sign out here, especially if you’re not willing to trade on your family’s history with the _Captain America_ work. So we’re going to MCA and they’re going to help you package this.”

“Did I argue?”

“You were going to.”

“You think you know me so well.”

“I do. That’s why the Cap stuff stays safe.”

Tony just grunts in response, sure that Pepper is going to be wrong on that point.

Two weeks later, he meets Steve Rogers and immediately realizes she was right.


	2. Exposition

The air is hazy with cigarette smoke, elegant swirls of grey blurring the yellow-orange light and inky black shadows as they drift slowly up toward the low, tin-plated ceiling. The deep, cavernous room echoes with light chatter and laughter, the bubbling of champagne and the clinking of glassware.

In ’45 when Steve got back from the war, this place was already shifting from a local cop bar for the L.A. County Sheriffs to a hangout for less important players in the Hollywood game. It was near empty on weekdays, and on Friday and Saturday nights the clientele was strictly below the line. But with Tom Breneman’s turning monster business just a stone's throw away on Vine near Sunset, over the years the faces of this crowd have slowly shifted as people wandered further on down the road. 

There are no mobsters or molls here, nor any of LAPD’s finest, but there are movie stars aplenty. They cozy up to one another in the rounded banquettes, lounging against rich red leather as they try to mix business with pleasure. The next contract discussed over the next cocktail. The next producer easily confused with the next paramour. Everything and everyone mingles. 

Except Steve Rogers. 

He doesn’t frequent The Shield often enough to have any claim to a regular seat, but this spot half in the shadows at the far, curving end of the long mahogany bar is the closest he’ll ever come to one. He angles his back to the wall, his eye line toward the door, and he nurses the same scotch and soda until it becomes far too warm and watery to taste worth a damn. 

“I'd say it’s good to see you, Rogers, but I don’t count myself a liar.” 

Nick Fury places both hands flat on the bar top as he stops in front of Steve, glaring at him with his one good eye. Steve sits up straight, rather surprised by Fury’s unexpectedly harsh greeting. He opens his mouth to defend himself – against what, he doesn’t quite know – when Nick gestures in a circle around Steve’s body.

“In case you haven’t noticed, there’s nobody around you in a five foot radius. You’re scaring away all my customers.”

Steve raises an eyebrow and makes a show of surveying the room.

“I dunno, Nick, the place looks pretty well packed to me.” 

Fury points to the empty stool to Steve’s right, the only seat Steve can mark as empty in the joint.

“Saving it for a friend.” Steve shrugs.

“Your _friends_ are over there.” Nick jerks his head toward the booth in the furthest corner. 

To anyone else, the scene might seem inviting. They may not be famous but they are undoubtedly a group of attractive people, well dressed enough to be noticed but not so much as to signal intimidating riches. They are warmly lit, their body language open. They smile and laugh pleasantly, passing drinks and gossip, camaraderie practically spilling forth from them like the groundswell of an uplifting music cue. 

Bucky’s eyes are bright and his color high. His tie is loose, the top button of his collar undone. His pint glass is once again empty in his hand. Beside him, Natasha is cradling a snifter of brandy, her full lips playing at a smirk as she surveys the men surrounding her table. Her dark red hair falls in perfect tight curls and her black, bead-encrusted dress hugs her curves. She looks every inch a silver screen starlet, and Steve suspects most everyone here would be surprised to discover she spends her days bent over a typewriter, entirely away from public view. 

Clint has shed his suit coat, a bold move for an upscale place like The Shield, but he flouts the rules of etiquette even more than Bucky these days. He's also sporting a purpling bruise and a row of stitches over his right eyebrow, and somehow this only adds to his puckish charm. His body, run roughshod from years in the stunt business, sports a fantastic number of scars and Clint has a fabulous story for each and every one. Steve often catches him with some wide-eyed ingénue, rolling up his sleeve or his pant leg and doling out the crazy story of how he received each particular injury.

Tonight’s addition to the gallery is the result of an overzealous rookie grabbing a real piece of wood rather than pre-scored corkboard to hit Clint clear across his face. Steve had heard the story from clear across the room.

Clint shrugged off such incidents as if they were of no matter. Two years ago, he lost hearing in one ear due to faulty rigging setting off a staged explosion far too early, and he now counts anything less than that level of serious injury as a mere flesh wound. He likes to joke that he made it through the whole real war without getting a single hit, only to get injured in a fake one. 

Thor is with them tonight, his blustery, booming laugh audible even over the din of the crowd. A recent émigré from Sweden, he’s been a boon to the studio’s special effects department. He specializes in weather simulation, and Steve has to admit that his thunderstorms read as near believable onscreen. 

He can also drink every one one of them under the table. That hasn’t stopped Clint and Bucky from trying, though it's only Natasha who really stands a chance. She may be slender and petite, but she’s got a stalwart constitution worthy of her Russian roots. 

They’re a great group of people, and Steve should join them. He almost wants to. But he won’t. 

Across from him, Nick sighs in frustration and wipes the bar top down as if Steve’s no longer sitting there.

“Go tell Sam to take a break.” 

“What, I work for you now?”

“Rogers, I’m secretly running this whole town.” 

Steve could almost believe that. Most of the people who frequent The Shield are none the wiser that the black man behind the bar is actually its owner; the proprietorship is under the name of his old war buddy Alexander Pierce, who is as blond-haired, blue-eyed as they come. Pierce makes an appearance every now again to glad-hand the customers, but it's just for show. Fury knows how to make this life work, knows which angles to take, what rules to break. Steve considers Nick a friend, but he wouldn't be surprised to find out that he has far more secrets up his sleeve than his real stake in the bar. 

Nick tosses the towel over his shoulder, and then reaches over and pulls Steve’s tumbler from his loose grasp. Steve sputters and Nick briefly mimics his gaping before snapping at him.

“What, you wanna sit here and pretend you’re drinking this some more?”

Steve concedes the point, putting his hands up in surrender and standing from his bar stool. 

“All right, all right, I’m going.” He gathers his coat and his fedora, dropping the light jacket over his forearm and donning the hat, tipping it up casually to sit high and loose on his forehead. 

He digs out his leather wallet and puts down a couple of bills for his drink. Nick swipes the money up and hands it back to him. Steve starts to protest but Nick shoots him down with flat stare.

“On the house, Rogers.” Steve must look as skeptical and surprised as he feels, because Nick’s stare turns to an outright glare. “What. I’m nice like that. Now get outta here.” 

Steve nods his thanks and turns into the crowd. Nick may play like he’s a hard-nosed bastard, but he’s got a soft spot for Steve and his pals, most likely because they were patronizing his place long before the Hollywood elite sashayed in. Steve appreciates the loyalty. 

He heads toward the tinkling of the piano, some old Hoagy Carmichael tune a familiar comfort as he weaves through the throng of patrons near the bar and then works around the maze of round five-seater tables that fill the center of the room. 

When he reaches his destination, Steve leans on the top of the upright piano, resting his elbows on the polished wood surface. He looks down at Sam as his fingers dance nimbly over the black and white keys. 

“‘Play it, Sam. Play 'As Time Goes By.'”

Sam responds with a deadpan grin, not missing a beat. 

“You’re hilarious. I’ve never heard that one before.”

“Well, I know the lyrics, but I don’t know about teaching you the music. Guess I could hum it for you.” Steve shrugs and circles around, taking a seat on the edge of the bench beside Sam. He’s careful not to interfere with his playing, but Sam shifts slightly to his right anyway, giving him more room. 

“I meant the joke, Rogers. The joke.”

“Why assume it’s a joke? Maybe I’m feeling sentimental.”

“The only way I’m ever playing that song is if Ingrid Bergman herself walks in here and asks for it. If she can stand it, I can stand it.”

“So that’s how it is. Good to know where our friendship stands,” Steve retorts. “Not even worth a song.”

Sam winks at him, ending his current number with a flourish of keys and transitioning seamlessly into The Inkspots’ “You’re Breaking My Heart.” 

“That’s how it is.” Sam replies. “And not to discourage you further from my sterling company, but is there any reason you’re over here and not over there?” He jerks his head over his shoulder toward their friends’ table. “ _I’d_ like to be over there.”

“Well you can be, if you wanna. Nick sent me over here to tell you to take a load off.”

“Could’ve told me that before I started a new number, you know.”

“I could have,” Steve shrugs. “You were too busy waxing poetic about Ingrid Bergman.”

“If you think that was poetry, Rogers, I think I’m beginning to understand the state of your love life.”

“Folks are just full of opinions today,” Steve mutters to himself, standing up and returning to his former position leaning against the piano. “I have to be on set early tomorrow, so I’m gonna head for home.”

“The night is young, stay awhile longer,” Sam entreats kindly, and Steve hedges, torn between his honest desire for the quiet of his apartment and the innate need to avoid disappointing the people who matter most in his life. 

“I’ll give you a call later this week.” Steve pats the top of the piano twice with his palm and then gives Sam a small wave goodnight. 

Sam wraps up his song early, ending a verse and skipping right to the last few bars, played at twice the normal speed. A few patrons turn their heads toward the piano, curious. The layer of sound once provided by the music is noticeably absent for a long moment, but soon the murmur of conversation adjusts to fill it. 

“Rogers, wait a second.” Sam’s hand lands firmly on his shoulder, and Steve begrudgingly stops and turns around. “Steve, seriously – you all right? 'Cause you don’t look all right.”

Steve sighs, feeling guilty for causing concern. He should have stayed at home rather than ruin Sam’s night with unnecessary worry. 

“I’m fine,” Steve tries to sound reassuring. “I just…I had a bad night last night, that’s all. Didn’t get much sleep. You know how that goes.”

“That I do,” Sam doesn’t make him explain any further. Sam’s coped better with life after the war, but they’ve both had the nightmares. Steve just happens to get them more often, is all. Yesterday had been particularly relentless; he couldn’t so much as close his eyes without being assaulted by memories he desperately wanted to forget. Around 4am, he’d given up the ghost and went to the living room to get a jumpstart on the day’s work, tiptoeing around the apartment as not to wake Bucky. 

“I’ll be better tomorrow. I just need some rest.”

Sam is still looking at him with those earnest eyes of his, clearly not believing a good night’s sleep is going to solve much of anything. 

“I have my break – we have time to talk if you want to.”

Steve musters up a smile. He genuinely appreciates Sam’s offer, but the last thing Sam needs is to spend the only half hour he gets away from the piano tonight listening to Steve’s problems. 

“Really, I’m fine. Tell Bucky and everyone else I’ll see them tomorrow.”

“So that’s how it is. You’re leaving me to play messenger?”

With the return of this particular tease, Sam makes it clear that he is letting him off the hook. Steve plays along gamely, even though he knows Sam’s just tabling this conversation for a later time.

“Oh that’s how it is.” He starts backing toward the door.

“All right, all right. Don’t blame me when Barnes gives you hell in the morning.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. See ya, Sam.” He gives Sam his best grin and a two-finger salute before pivoting on his heel and making for the door. 

A strikingly elegant redhead in an emerald green dress is approaching the club just as Steve exits, but it’s the rakishly handsome man on her arm that makes Steve’s steps stutter. Thinking quickly, he tilts the brim of his hat low across his brow and ducks his head, looking away as he courteously holds the door open for the young lady. 

She nods politely in thanks, not really looking at him, and her companion doesn’t give him so much as a glance. 

The door falls gently closed, taking the noise of the nightclub with it, and Steve is left with the soundtrack of the city as somewhere a clock chimes eleven. Further in the distance, there is a mournful wail of police sirens.

He flags down a cab with surprising ease, and once inside breathes a deep sigh of relief. 

It had been a close call. 

He hadn’t been ready to meet Tony Stark tonight, of all nights.

*******

Tony exhales, cigar smoke temporarily fogging his line of vision. The image onscreen blurs and then re-crystallizes.

Behind him, the projector rattles. Dust motes dance in the white beam of light streaming from the back of the room. It cuts a widening swath just over his shoulder to reach the big screen he’d recently installed on the wall. 

“Cross her off the list.” Tony doesn’t look back at his casting director, knowing full well that she will hear his every word. 

“What’s wrong with this one?” Maria inquires, her voice as sharp as the jab of her pen as she strikes out another name on her notepad. 

“She sounds like a little girl. How old is she really? Nineteen?”

“Twenty.”

“She should act like it. We need a _woman_. If I wanted a kid, I’d hire Shirley Temple.”

“Shirley Temple is twenty-one now, sir.”

“Really? Huh. Can we get her in here?” He’s only half-kidding. 

“She’s retiring. And she hasn’t had a hit in ten years.”

“Pity. Regardless, we need someone with a commanding presence; this one, I keep expecting to call me Daddy and beg for a spanking.”

“Lovely.” Maria replies tightly, not amused. Tony shrugs off her displeasure.

“We should take a break. I never thought I’d say this, but I’m sick of looking at beautiful women.” 

“What _is_ the world coming to.” 

Tony ignores Maria’s sarcasm and shakes his head sadly, flicking his hand toward the projectionist dismissively. The playback is switched off, the film shuttering to a stop.

The lights come up low, illuminating the screening room softly. They’ve been locked in the darkness for so long that even this seems offensively bright. Tony squints uncomfortably as his eyes adjust. 

“Can we do another casting call?”

“It’s not really in the budget, Mr. Stark,” Coulson pipes up from the shadows in the rear of the room. Tony hadn’t even realized he was here. The man has such a meek, unassuming presence; he tends to blend in with the walls most times. “We’ve already done two rounds. We’ve got to find a girl for the part soon.”

“No, we’ve got to find the _right_ girl for the part soon, Phil. The _right_ girl. This is the first picture we make, we can’t start lowering our standards right off the bat. It’s gotta be perfect if we’re going to make a lasting impression, let the Hollywood players know that we mean business.”

Behind him, the casting footage starts to be rewound; two reels whir whip fast. 

“We also have to have enough money to get the picture made. We can’t do that if we can’t get beyond casting.” 

“You’re a very pessimistic man, Coulson, anyone else ever tell you that?” 

“They have, sir. I prefer to think of myself as realistic.”

Tony waves him off, then stretches his arm enough to shake down his sleeve, let him get a look at his watch face for the time. 

“Ok, wow, it’s later than I thought. Let’s forget the break and just call it a day. We can start with the men tomorrow – hopefully they’re a better lot than this sorry bunch.”

“That’s the spirit, Mr. Stark,” Maria replies dryly. Tony finally shoots her a look over his shoulder, tilting his head down to look at her over the rim of his wire frame glasses.

“I admire the way you barely conceal your disdain for me, Miss Hill. It’s refreshing.”

“I’m thrilled that you’re thrilled.” 

Both he and Maria start to rise from their seats, but Coulson clears his throat.

“Before we go, Mr. Stark, there is still the matter of the Captain America film library.”

Tony huffs impatiently, slumping back down. 

“Not this again. What about it?”

“Well, there has been interest in reviving the character for children’s audiences, at least in certain sectors. A lot of people seem to think the property would be ideal for a television program.”

“Really. God, why?” He turns fully in his seat, screwing his face up in puzzlement. Coulson leans forward, resting his elbows on the chair back in front of him.

“Television is an up and coming –”

“We already have television on the agenda, Coulson.” He holds a hand up to stop the man from talking. “Christ. I’m not a Luddite, or Jack Warner. I mean why Captain America?”

“Kids love superheroes,” Coulson states simply. “There’s already talk, even at Warners. Maybe a Superman feature, leading into a television serial sometime over the next few years if the movie gets off the ground, no pun intended. I think they’re waiting for television to gain a bit of a stronger presence in suburban markets. Captain America would really be an ideal venture for us in order to get a foothold in that corner of the industry. He’s a _great_ character.”

Coulson seems a little too enthusiastic about this. 

“Pepper mentioned something about you having quite the interest. Let me guess – you have all the collectibles – the comics, the trading cards, the whole kit and caboodle.” 

“I do, in fact.” Coulson frowns, clearly resenting the implication that this is anything he should not be proud of. 

“Those films were nothing but cheap trash propaganda.”

“The production values may not have been the best, but if you want to talk about presence….” Coulson gestures like that’s enough said.

“He _is_ right,” Maria surprisingly chimes in, tapping the end of her pen against the spiral binding of her notebook. “Steve Rogers does have charisma.”

“We’ve got some of the reels in here, don’t we?” Tony had seen the box sitting along the back wall; he’d been purposefully ignoring it until now. “Slap one on. I’ll take one look to satisfy your insanity and then we can talk about selling off the rights to the highest bidder. Then at least _something_ useful can come out of my father’s ridiculous foray into filmmaking.”

There is silence in the screening room, as if no one is really sure he means what he says. He waves a hand onward.

“I’m not kidding.” 

There’s noise behind him as a canister is uncapped and the film loaded, looped and fed through the gate to the uptake. 

“Here we go,” Tony mumbles to himself as the lights fully dim. He stubs out his cigar and makes a show of rubbing his hands together and leaning forward in anticipation, making a mockery of the very idea that this could be more than an exercise in futility. 

The leader flips by, sync sound beeping at 2 before the screen goes dark. The titles come up – _Captain America and His Howling Commandos!_ – and a patriotic fanfare blasts forth. Way too much trumpet and snare. The sound level actually hurts his ears.

Captain America marches onscreen, followed by his band of merry soldiers. Tony snorts at the sight of the men that make up his so-called unit. The very idea that so many different races and ethnicities would be integrated in one company is lofty but ludicrous. He wonders exactly who the OWI thought they’d be fooling with that one. 

The story is a simple one. German soldiers are terrorizing a beachside town in England, clearly conveying that without American intervention, German forces were sure to succeed in their invasion of our closest ally. _If Great Britain falls, America will be next!_ Captain America and his compatriots successfully battle the Germans back to the shore, where they scurry back to their boats and presumably retreat to mainland Europe. The adoring townsfolk praise Captain America for his efforts, and a sweet bonny lass innocently bats her eyelashes and kisses her hero chastely on the cheek in gratitude. 

The sets are shoddy, the acting atrocious, and half the footage is marred by a hair in the gate, the ragged black line twitching at the top edge of the frame. 

Admittedly, Steve Rogers, the actor playing Captain America, is quite fit; his tight costume clings to the sharp lines of his muscled body in a way that borders on obscene. His face is mostly covered at all times by a silly mask. If his strong jawline, full lips and piercing eyes are anything to go by, covering that all up was a really poor decision. 

He _is_ handsome, yet it’s more than that. He’ll never admit it aloud, but Coulson had been right about the man’s presence onscreen. It’s difficult not to instinctively follow his every move. He’s magnetic. 

Though it’s his first time seeing Captain America in action, that Steve Rogers has the makings of a matinee idol is not exactly news to Tony. 

His father had been sure they’d discovered a star, and Tony read all about it in his father’s short missives. Tony couldn't have possibly cared less at the time, and found his father’s focus on wartime propaganda frankly appalling. Howard didn’t want to go to war to save the world; he wanted war because war meant more money in his pocket, and Steve Rogers was going to help him sell the idea to the American public. 

While Howard had been taking cushy Hollywood gigs and his factories had been pumping out as many munitions as the metal supply would allow, Tony had been in Tunisia, unwisely trying to do his own part by using his Italian roots to his advantage. Thanks to his mother, he looked the part and could speak the language, and his background in military armaments made him a great candidate to infiltrate the Italian forces posing as a black market arms dealer. 

And so as Howard fawned over Steve Rogers like he was the obedient son he’d really wanted and never had, his real son nearly got blown to smithereens while on a mission in Vichy-held French North Africa. It was the Germans, not the Italians, who held him captive in Morocco until Operation Torch brought the Allied forces to his rescue. 

He’d been honorably discharged, done with the war by 1943, just as Captain America went off to Europe to become a real hero. He’d received a chest marred with battle scars and permanent heart trouble for his efforts; Tony doesn’t know how or where Steve Rogers wound up, and he doesn’t much care.

“Mr. Stark. Mr. Stark?”

“ _Tony!_ ” 

“Huh, what?” Tony snaps to at the sound of his name. Pepper is standing beside him, her hand on his shoulder. The film is over, the screen bright white and the tail of the film thwapping wildly as the projectionist sets about shutting the machine down. It slowly winds down to a stop. 

Tony rubs his face, wondering how long he’d been lost in his thoughts. The run time on those Captain America flicks was only about fifteen minutes, if he recalls. Couldn’t have been too much time inside his own head. 

“When did you get here?” 

“A few minutes ago. I see this particular Cap film made quite the impression?”

“It couldn’t even keep my attention, Pep. I was thinking about something else entirely.” 

“If you say so.” 

Pepper’s knowing smile leaves him ruffled. There are three people who are permanently in his life who know that while he’s enjoyed the attentions of many women in the past, he frequently prefers the company of men. His chauffeur, Happy, knows by necessity. His best friend, James Rhodes, knows because once in an ill-advised drunken moment, Tony had laid one on him. Pepper knows because she understands him. He couldn’t love her the way she’d wanted, and she’d guessed why; he hadn’t even had to tell her. 

But now her smile implies that his distraction had something to do with the handsome mug onscreen, and it truly doesn’t. Not even a little.

“Coulson, you can put the rights to the character and his library up for sale. I don’t want this hanging around my neck.” Tony tugs at his tie, suddenly uncomfortable and feeling it too tightly at his throat. 

“Are you sure?” Pepper asks softly. “It’s your father’s –”

“All the more reason to be done with it.” Tony stands up, ending the argument by removing himself from the room. No one follows him out.


	3. The Inciting Incident

Los Angeles is quiet this early in the morning. When Steve started his roadwork, the sun had yet to rise and the streets were empty. He’d arrived at Griffith Park just as dawn was cresting blue and pink against the muddy sky. The dilapidated Hollywoodland sign is barely visible through the morning haze as he pauses in front of the observatory to stretch for a moment before heading back down the hill. 

Steve had never been to L.A. before the war, and hadn’t spent all that much time here during his time as Captain America, but even he can see the difference in the air now, can feel it when he breathes. He doesn’t know if it’s his sensitive lungs or if it’s really just growing that bad, but if it gets any worse, Steve might have to figure out a way to pack his glass nebulizer to take with him during his morning exercise. 

It would be inconvenient, but Steve remembers the days of his youth when an attack would set in and panicked onlookers would simply stand there at a loss for what to do, or worse, pat him on the back and tell him to _calm down and just breathe_. As if it were that simple. He has no wish to live through experiences like that again. 

As is his tradition, Steve places his palm against the cool concrete of the Astronomers Monument before turning to make the six-mile journey back home. Bucky made a joke once that Steve would run to the stars and back if he could, and it stuck in his mind enough that he’d made the observatory a touchtone ever since. The stars in the sky are the only stars in L.A. he’s truly comfortable with, and there’s peace to be found in climbing the hill to the park, alone, watching as they slowly fade from view in the sky.

Leaning back to control his pace as he starts his downward descent, Steve ponders taking the triangular route, heading southeast to Union Station before turning west toward his and Bucky’s apartment. It would add another seven miles to his journey, but Bucky would probably be up and gone by the time he got home in that case.

It’s not like he necessarily _wants_ to avoid his best friend, but Bucky gets so concerned when Steve’s going through one of his bouts of insomnia. It only makes Steve feel all the more guilty. Bucky’s the one whose life had been permanently altered by the war – _he’d lost a limb, for God’s sake_ – yet Steve’s the one who really can't shake it, the one who is haunted, disturbed.

But Bucky hadn’t been there when they’d liberated the camps. Bucky had been in a hospital in London and he didn’t know, he didn’t _see_ –

“No.” Steve reminds himself aloud, shaking his head sharply to derail that train of thought. These morning jaunts are supposed to give him the time to get it together every morning, to get his mind clear and focused – not lost in the muck of the past. He turns and directs himself toward home, purposefully choosing not to give in to the cowardly voice inside that tells him to hide.

He follows the Red Car line back to West Hollywood, the streets considerably more lively as the early birds start going out for breakfast, begin heading in to work. All the nightclubs and restaurants on Sunset look sad in the morning, however, drab without their lights dazzling, and their sidewalks dirty from revels the night before. 

The air is beginning to warm with the day by the time he climbs the stairs to their apartment on North Hayworth; it’s going to be a hot one if the temperature is already climbing like this. Steve pauses for a moment on the landing outside the apartment door, taking time to straighten out both his thoughts and his appearance. He untucks his white and red striped tank from the tight waistband of his white running shorts and uses the hem to dry his sweaty face, then runs a hand through his hair in a poor attempt to straighten and flatten the damp strands.

Steve leans against the iron railing and concentrates on slowing his breathing, his heartbeat. He hopes that the flush of exertion will fade from his pale skin a bit before he goes inside. 

A brand new Buick Roadmaster cruises down the avenue, its maroon paint job spotless and its chrome shining. The top is down and Steve instantly recognizes the passenger despite her large, dark sunglasses and black, feathered capulet. He would never comment upon it, but he can’t help but notice she’s clearly dressed in yesterday’s clothes, a strapless evening gown and shoulder high gloves. Her diamonds shimmer in the sunlight. 

Janet Van Dyne is the most sought-after costume designer next to Edith Head, and she’s been staying with a friend in the apartments across the street for two weeks now. Steve tries not to listen to gossip, but it’s been everywhere that she and Hank Pym, her actor husband, are on the outs and quite possibly heading for a scandalous divorce. 

Miss Van Dyne glances across the street and realizes that she’s not without an audience. Instead of ducking away, she waves good morning to him as if they know each other and then elegantly saunters inside. 

“You think she knows Fitzgerald died in that apartment?” Bucky startles him. Steve turns as his friend steps out of the doorway, letting the screen door bounce shut as he joins Steve in leaning on the railing. He’s already dressed for work, on his way out.

“If she does, I highly doubt she’d give it any mind. She doesn’t seem to be that faint of heart,” Steve replies, coughing to clear his throat. Half the reason he and Bucky had picked this place themselves was because the famous author’s associations with the neighborhood, though that had been Bucky’s interest, not his. Steve often reminds him that F. Scott made for a horrible screenwriter and he’d best pick a different idol, but Bucky is not to be persuaded. 

“You speak the truth.” Bucky claps him on the shoulder, and then wrinkles his nose, wiping his hand down the front of his suit coat. “You’re disgusting. Running to the stars again?”

“Thought I’d get it in while it was still cool out. Gonna be a burner.” 

“Lovely. The bungalow will feel like a bakehouse. Might be home early if that’s the case.”

“Because this place is so much better,” Steve snorts. Their apartment is poorly designed, windows not allowing for any cross-breeze to circulate the air in and out. In the dead of summer, their rooms become a veritable maze of portable fans; small ones and big ones perched perilously wherever there’s a nearby electrical outlet to be found. 

“Even so.”

“You just don’t want to write.”

“You’re onto me, Rogers.” Bucky goes to clap him on the shoulder again but stops himself. He closes his fist instead and gives Steve a half-hearted punch to the bicep. 

Steve thinks he’s gotten away without comment, Bucky walking down two stairs toward the street, when Bucky pauses and looks up at him. 

“Don’t drive the bike to the lot today if you’re not sleeping. Trolley will do you fine.”

“Sure.” Steve doesn’t fight him on it. 

“I mean it. I know you think you’re invincible now that you’re built like Johnny Weissmuller, but even Tarzan needs shut-eye.”

“I hear you, Buck. Promise.” 

Bucky nods and then finishes descending the stairs, looking back to give him a small wave as he crosses the lawn and heads off for the streetcar himself. 

Steve sighs, pushing off the railing and pulling open the screen door. He stops short inside the entryway, surprised to find Natasha sitting calmly at their kitchen table, sipping coffee and reading the paper. 

_How nice of Bucky to give me a heads up_ , he thinks sarcastically. He had absolutely no idea she was here. 

Or that she and Bucky had started this up once again. 

“Relax, Rogers,” she says dryly, not looking up from her reading as she sets her coffee cup back down on its saucer. “We were out late and I missed the last train back home, I opted to stay here rather than pay for a cab." She turns the page. "And I can assure you, James was a perfect gentleman.”

“It’s not really any of my business,” Steve mumbles, ducking his head and rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Look at you blushing, you’re adorable.” How she knows the color is rising to his cheeks, Steve’s not sure, because she still hasn’t spared him a glance. 

He lets the door fall closed behind him and goes to the refrigerator. 

“Forgive me if I’m mistaken here, Natasha, but your writing partner just went to the office. Shouldn’t you be there as well? I was under the impression that was how this all worked.” He keeps his tone carefully casual as he searches for the carafe of milk. The glass is slippery with condensation as he takes it out and turns back to face his unexpected guest. 

One of her legs is folded in close, foot up on the seat of her chair. Her leg is startlingly bare, skin ivory pale and silky smooth. The artist in him feels a pull at its beauty, but it’s not anything more than that. Steve attempts to train his gaze respectfully on her face, but the slinky way she moves makes that difficult. 

“A lady doesn’t like to be rushed, Rogers.” Natasha unfolds from her seat, the robe of Bucky’s that she’s borrowed dangerously loose as she saunters close. A smile curves over her full lips, her green eyes bright with mischief. “You’re just _too easy_ to rile up. I almost can’t help myself.”

“And you get far too much enjoyment from doing it, Romanoff.”

“That I do.” She stands on tiptoe and presses a kiss to his cheek, chaste and sweet. She may like teasing him, but they both know their relationship isn’t like that in the slightest. Before he got healthy, he never would have thought a woman like Natasha would pay him any mind and even if she had, he wouldn’t have known what in the world to say to her. Now they are the closest of friends and he could tell her almost anything.

“Someday you’ll make some girl truly happy, Steve.” Natasha reaches up and ruffles his hair, not at all put off by his sweaty state. She smacks the morning paper against his chest, leaving him to take it off her hands. “I just hope she’s far more forward than even _I_ am or you’re going to be a permanent bachelor.”

Steve chooses to ignore her. He puts the milk back without even having poured a glass and puts thoughts of breakfast aside until later. All the telltale signs of another set-up, another blind date, are in the air. Natasha’s winding up to something.

“I’m going to go take a shower.” He tosses over his shoulder, already on his way down the hall. 

“See you tonight, Rogers," she calls after him, a clear implication that she can't be dodged forever.

He releases a long, deep breath as soon as he’s in the safety of the bathroom, alone. It’s then he realizes he’s still holding the paper. It’s not the news, but one of those silly gossip rags that he never reads. 

Tony Stark’s picture is above the fold, his smile playful and knowing, and his tie loose around his neck, his collar popped. He looks debauched. Steve feels a twinge of attraction low in his gut, unbidden and unwanted. 

He tosses it into the wastebasket without so much as looking at the headline and resolutely tries to focus on the day ahead, even if Natasha’s words niggle the back of his mind.

He can tell Natasha almost anything. _Almost_.

*******

It’s around ten in the morning when Tony drags himself into the car waiting to take him to Paramount, surely far too late for the tour of the facilities that Pepper has arranged. His head is pounding. He doesn’t drink in the way he used to; where once it wouldn't have mattered that he’d tied one on last night at an industry party up in the canyon, now it definitely has its deleterious effects.

It was the house of some high-level executive at MGM and the guests had been strictly A-list. Considering he’s not exactly Hollywood glitterati, the invitation clearly meant he’d piqued the interest of _someone_ important. Tony felt it imperative to milk the night for all it was worth in case another opportunity didn’t immediately present itself.

“Sorry, sorry,” Tony mumbles half-heartedly to Pepper as he practically crawls into the backseat of the Bentley. “Oh god, it hurts.” He winces as he reluctantly takes off his sunglasses to read the headline of the paper that Pepper has thrust into his lap.

 _Stark and the Starlet?_ screams the headline of _Peter Quill’s Galaxy of Stars_. Below is a candid photograph of Tony leaving the party with Wanda Maximoff cozy on his arm. Her personal assistant, Pietro, lurks two paces behind them in the fuzzy background. He’s not much more than a shock of hair so blond it’s white, but Tony knows he’s scowling. Tony is grinning dopily, two sheets to the wind and winking at the camera. Wanda has her face carefully angled to show her better side, eyes downcast in perfect picture of chaste embarrassment at being caught with a lover. His wink to the camera must have helped sell that one. 

He’s _not_ her lover, nor does he plan to be, but he can’t blame Wanda for playing it that way. Men in this town want what other powerful men have, and millionaire businessman Tony Stark is probably a nice stepping stone to the ones who can open the right doors for an up-and-coming actress like Maximoff. 

“Have fun last night?” Pepper asks loudly, knowing full well how much pain he’s in. Tony shoves the paper aside and reaches for the coffee he knows she has.

Sure enough, she places a steaming cup in his hands. He breathes it in, sighing at the heavenly aroma. 

“Oh, that’s the good stuff.” Tony licks his lips after his first sip, looking forward to the caffeine that’s about to jolt his system. This is his Italian dark roast, shipped over monthly specifically for his use only. Pepper occasionally sneaks a cup when he’s driving her crazy, but he doesn’t mention it. It seems only fair, with her putting up with his vast amount of bullshit and all. 

“I thought you were going to this party to make some business connections.” Pepper picks up the paper again, but folds it over and stuffs it into her purse with a bit too much force. 

“Genius, millionaire, playboy, philanthropist,” Tony reminds her. “I have an image to uphold.”

“We’d agreed that we were dropping playboy from that string of epithets, didn’t we? I remember having that conversation. ‘Pepper, I need to focus on the work. Pepper, I need to be taken seriously. Pepper’–”

“Pepper, I love you dearly, but can we save this scolding for a later time? Perhaps for when I do more than walk a young lady to her car?”

“It doesn’t matter if that’s what happened. It’s what Peter Quill says happened. They don’t call him Lord of the Stars for nothing.”

“Who calls him that, no one really calls him that, do they? It’s just a stupid gossip rag.”

“ _The_ gossip rag.”

“It’s hardly the _New York Times_. It’s not even _Variety_. No one I’ve talked to reads it.”

“Well, they might say they don’t, but trust me, they do. It’s the equivalent of Page Six out here.”

“What about that other one, that Luke, or Lucky, or…” Tony snaps his fingers repeatedly as he takes another long drink of his coffee, urging Pepper to fill in the right name he’s looking for.

“Loki. They call _him_ the King of Lies. _Movie Mischief_ has a quarter the circulation numbers, he’s nothing to worry about.”

“Then I’m on the front page of one of the most important weeklies in town. Frankly, I’m _appalled_ it took me near a month to get there, so any publicity is good publicity. Celebrate, Pepper.” He lifts his glass to her and she sighs with a put upon frown. “Thanks for the coffee, by the way.”

“Happy, we can go.” Pepper tilts her head to speak to the man up front, his long-time driver and bodyguard and Pepper’s newly minted fiancé. The diamond ring sparkles on her finger as she tucks a wayward wisp of her long strawberry blond hair back behind her ear. 

Tony’s relieved to say he pays Happy more than well enough, so he was able to buy Pepper a ring worthy of her without taking too deep a ding in his savings. He would’ve gladly given the man a loan had that not been the case, but that most likely would have been one of the most awkward conversations imaginable. 

Perhaps more awkward than the time his father had tried to explain the birds and the bees to him, had given up not even halfway through, and handed him his first beer instead. 

It’s odd, his former girl and his bodyguard getting hitched, but Tony thinks it should feel worse than it actually does. Ninety percent of the time he’s thoroughly thrilled about the match. It’s just late at night when he’s both alone and lonely that he feels the pang of regret and the sting of jealousy. 

Tony pulls himself from his thoughts and focuses on the present rather than the past. 

“So, exactly how late am I for this thing?”

“You’re not late at all, Tony. Our meeting is at noon.” Pepper smiles, looking slightly pleased with herself. Tony looks at his watch, seeing that he has a full hour before he’s expected at Paramount. 

“Miss Potts, you tricksy minx. I’m paying you to lie to me now?”

“You pay me to do my job, Mr. Stark. And if that necessitates a little massaging of the truth now and again to get you where you need to be, _when_ you need to be there, I daresay you should give me a raise.”

“I’ll look into it.” Tony lifts his glass to her in a toast, and then downs more of his coffee. He’ll need it to get through this day. “But for right now, could you look into some aspirin, because my head is –”

Pepper has already reached into her purse and pulled out the glass bottle. She hands it to him. He takes it gratefully. 

“Happy, this woman is going to run circles around you, you don’t deserve her!” 

Happy lifts his chin and smiles at Tony in the rear view mirror, looking quite proud.

“No I don’t, sir!” 

Tony pops two aspirin and finishes the last dregs of coffee. Then he leans his head back and closes his eyes behind his sunglasses, hoping to forget the rest of the world for at least the length of this drive.

*******

Steve grunts as he lifts the frame, tilting the third wall up from the floor. His muscles strain as he holds it upright while Jones checks to make sure it’s level and Morita and Dugan go about nailing it into place.

“We good?” He glances at Jones, his lead carpenter, who steps back and nods. Dugan joins Jones by his side, tucking his hammer back into his tool belt. He crosses his arms over his barrel chest and jokingly huffs with pride.

“All good on my end. Jimmy, what’s taking so long down there?”

“Bite me, Dum Dum.” Morita makes an obscene gesture in his direction and both Dugan and Jones chuckle. “Quality work takes time; I take pride in my craftsmanship, unlike some people.”

“More like it takes you three tries to hit a dang nail on the head. So sad that everyone can’t be born with god given talent like me and Gabe here, but you keep working at it and maybe one day Rogers will let you hold more than your own dick in your hands.”

“I think you’re getting confused and talking about your love life.”

“All right, that’s enough,” Steve interrupts the back-and-forth, knowing from previous experience that it can only get more coarse from there and not really in the mood to hear it. He backs up until he’s standing alongside Gabe as well, giving himself some space to survey their work. “Seems fine. Did Monty get final word on the color choice?”

Falsworth is his second in command on the crew, and Steve often relies on him as the go-between for set design and art direction. He’d do it himself, but with his own artist’s eye, he frequently finds himself perturbed by the horrible aesthetic choices being made and unable to hold his tongue about it. 

He’s found over the years that it’s all well and good to be designing and building the sets, but when it comes to dressing them, he’s better off keeping his opinions to himself. He hasn’t come across a team yet that doesn’t resent his two cents. 

It’s one of the few times Steve wonders if being his old self, 10 inches shorter and 105 pounds lighter, would actually be to his benefit. People look at him and see some brawny beefcake who built the rooms they stand in, but they forget that it all came from intricate, careful plans created in his mind and drawn in detail by his hand. 

But then again, when he was small, most people looked at him and didn’t see him at all. 

So now he sends Falsworth to do some negotiating in his place. Monty is suave and very, _very_ British, and in Hollywood, as in most of America, that lends him some kind of intrinsic authority. 

“The word did come back, and they’re still going with that damn bright blue,” Gabe informs him. 

Apparently even Monty’s posh accent wasn’t persuasive enough, this time. Steve frowns at the set that’s coming together in front of him.

“That’s gonna read as downright garish on screen,” Dugan says, as if this is a new revelation.

“Yes, yes it will.” Steve peels off his workman’s gloves and tucks them under the band of his tool belt. He scratches his eyebrow with his thumb as he studies the room, wondering if it’s not too late to put in a big picture window and cut down on the actual amount of available surface to paint. But then they’d have to project some outdoor scene for the illusion of a view, and that can be just as dicey. 

He sighs, wishing not for the first time that he had more control over these projects. But if he’d wanted control, he should’ve stuck to painting or drawing or sculpting, any other art form that allowed him to work entirely on his own. 

Unfortunately it’s a lot harder to make rent that way. 

At least he counts some of his friends among his immediate crew members, a band that stayed together after they returned from the war and hadn’t a clue what to do with their lives. Steve had been their leader in battle, and somehow when back stateside they all just followed him here and asked him to keep right on leading. 

Whenever he gets annoyed, Steve focuses on them – on their lives, their wives, their growing families – and suddenly quibbling over a shade of blue on a wall on a movie set doesn’t seem worth the anger.

“Okay. Why don’t you check in with Dernier about getting the grips to set the overhead rigging and then touch base with Lang and make sure we’re on track with the electricians on that count as well.”

“Oh, Scotty boy is sparks on this? I didn’t get that memo.” Dugan sounds pleasantly surprised; Scott Lang had been the best gaffer in the business until he got sent up the river a few years back. His crime had been a noble one, exposing some union leaders for ripping off thousands of dollars from below-the-line workers through pumped up fees and dues, but the way he’d achieved his goals had involved some less-than-legal breaking & entering followed by some light thieving. 

“How’d that happen? I would’ve thought no one would touch him with a ten foot pole after what went down,” Morita comments, and after the others nod in agreement, one by one they all pause and then look at him. 

“You vouched for him, didn’t you.” Gabe doesn't phrase it as a question because everyone already knows the answer. Steve shrugs a little, not about to explain himself. Scott’s a decent fellow, and when he came to Steve, desperate and broke, and asked for any help he could offer, Steve had been glad to go to bat for him with the producer of this picture.

It hadn’t taken too much convincing, honestly. Studio execs are more forgiving of people who do damage to unions rather than strengthen them, and Steve suspected that even without his assistance, Scott’s time on the blacklist was already nearing an end. Juicers with Scott’s level of expertise in both mechanical and electrical engineering are hard to come by. 

“It’s fine,” Steve assures the three of them, brushing off the unspoken concern. 

“I like Scott and all, but that’s your reputation, Rogers. Your reputation means our jobs, in the end.” Dugan’s got a point, but Steve would have thought after all this time, they’d have more trust in him than this. Scott Lang might be an ex-con, but he’s a good guy, and he’s not going to let Steve down.

“Have I ever steered you wrong before, Dum Dum?” Steve points out, forcing a smile to lighten the mood. 

“Well, there was that dame in Itter who wasn’t actually a dame.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Dum Dum, that was Barnes who sent her your way. And you were so drunk, you didn’t notice until she took you up to her room.”

“I’d ask for an explanation, but I don’t think I want one,” Steve shakes his head, hoping that no one thinks it necessary to reveal exactly how far into the encounter Dugan got before the realization struck. 

There’s a list of supplies they need for that afternoon’s work that everyone’s been scribbling down throughout the morning, so Steve pulls the paper from the clipboard, folds it in quarters, and slips it into his pocket. The pencil gets tucked over his right ear. 

He opens his mouth to tell the guys that he’ll be back shortly with what they need, but their discussion of Dum Dum’s indiscretions has escalated into a good-natured argument over who has made the biggest romantic blunders in the past. Each is sure one of the others has made far more embarrassing mistakes. 

Steve leaves behind the three men as they bicker over the precise details.

*******

He wants to care, and he knows he should, but Tony can’t bring himself to give his full attention to the mid-level unit producer whose unglorified job it is today to tout him around the backlot. It’s not like he thought Balaban would be there to greet him, but Tony had expected at least one of the higher-ups to pay him some mind. It seems that his money can only get him so far.

New York stopped being the seat of power for the film industry twenty years ago; the days of Zukor and Loew are done. Tony’s just some hotshot outsider blowing into town thinking he can make movies; these guys want his bank, but at the same time they also don’t want him to succeed. They need the cash because they’re being forced to divest their exhibition arms, while for the same reason they’re weaker than ever and looking to circle the wagons, stop others from chipping away at the system they’ve built. 

Selznick came up through the ranks at RKO, MGM, and Paramount, and had more than proved his chops by the time he went independent. He was a movie man, not an imposter, an invader. And studio heads still resisted, still gave him trouble. 

Tony should probably be thankful he’s being let onto the Paramount lot, that someone’s willing to talk to him about leasing him production space. _Should_ being the operative word.

He’s kind of just annoyed. 

They’ve stopped in the set, lighting and grip department and Thomas Lowell, the poor schmuck tasked with leading him and Pepper around, is blathering about equipment and crews and other such-and-such.

Tony leans back on his heels, tuning Thomas out and tilting his head to look at the high sheet metal ceiling, buttressed by wood rafters. Pretty solid construction. Humming lightly to himself, he lets his gaze wander aimlessly around the rest of the warehouse.

That’s when Tony sees him.

He’s walking in out of the sunlight and Tony swears for a moment that he’s witnessing the visitation of an angel. This man is so beautiful that he makes Tony doubt both his sanity and his religion. 

Tony automatically turns his whole body toward the open warehouse door, his responsibility to the guided tour utterly forgotten as he watches the man’s muscular frame shift and stretch underneath his sinfully tight white undershirt. He turns and bends to lift up a long, heavy backdrop roll – singlehandedly – and the curve of his ass beneath his dark denims is spectacular. A tool belt is slung loosely around his slim waist, and doesn’t that do something to Tony, he doesn’t even know what. 

The way the man moves is somehow familiar – an impossible grace and control as he quickly loads up a cart with supplies, heavy items giving him not the slightest trouble. When he stops to pull a list from his back pocket, he pulls off his right work glove with his teeth and grabs the pencil from above his ear, checking off items with an intense concentration that brings a furrow to his brow.

His jawline is cut from stone, his cheekbones equally chiseled. At this angle, Tony has yet to see his face in its full glory, but in profile, he’s striking. He still has a fingertip of his tan work glove caught between his teeth, his full, pink lips seeming to mouth something against the leather as he finishes his task. 

He shoves the ragged piece of paper back into his jeans and slips his work glove back on his hand. 

And then like that, the most perfect man Tony has ever seen is walking away. 

“Pepper, I’ll be right back.” Tony informs her distractedly, moving toward the door like a man in a trance. 

“Tony, where are you going –”

“Mr. Stark, forgive me, but you’re not allowed to go off on your own. Insurance liability, you must understand.” Thomas is simpering over something, but it barely registers. Until the man scampers in front of him, waving his hands. “Is there some place you would like to go? I would be happy to take you.”

“Where did he…?” Tony mutters to himself as he brushes Thomas’ query aside. There’s no sign of his mystery man on the avenue; he scans the passers-by for those broad shoulders, that lovely head of golden hair, but everyone around him at the moment is dull, useless. 

The lumber yard is just across the way, and Tony wonders if that’s where the man ducked into. The tool belt and the sawdust on his pants clearly mean he’s a workman of some kind. They’ve already seen the lumber yard, but Tony debates asking to go back and hurriedly tries to come up with a good reason for doing so.

“What is the _matter_ with you?” Pepper hisses as she catches up to him, stopping at his side and putting a tight hand on his elbow, manicured fingernails digging into his arm. “You’re being rude, and you can’t just go wandering off. Do you want this deal or not?”

“No, no, I want this deal. I want to be on this lot as much as humanly possible,” Tony replies quickly. Pepper’s eyes narrow.

“All…right. I suppose that’s the enthusiasm I was looking for…” 

“Shall we continue, then?” Thomas asks, and Tony nods absently, his eyes still scanning the street.

*******

It’s well past the time to break for lunch. Steve had been so wrapped up in the construction of the attic loft set that hours had slipped away; luckily, his men seem to have been just as involved in their work. When he calls for break, even Dugan looks surprised.

They all power down their tools hurriedly, however, perhaps realizing their hungry stomachs haven’t forgotten the hour. He watches idly, not that hungry himself, as everyone heads outdoors, eager to get some fresh air. 

Without the studio lights on and the entire cast and crew present, the soundstage tends to be cooler than outside. The facility’s ceiling is so high and the room so cavernous and empty that when he first arrives in the morning, it can actually be downright chilly. But by one in the afternoon, the sun has warmed the metal roof and walls, and the heat of the day has seeped in enough to make the air seem stale and oppressive. 

Steve’s been pushing himself hard enough that his flannel shirt came off long ago and his white undershirt now clings to his skin, damp with sweat. He picks up his over shirt from where it’s hanging on a rack of C-stands and contemplates throwing it back on before going outside. No one expects workmen to be dressed prim and proper, but he _is_ the head of his crew. When he leaves the soundstage to walk the backlot in his work clothes, he always feels a bit underdressed. 

The blast of Los Angeles summer heat hits him like he’s walked into a wall. It’s a different kind of heat than June in New York – less muggy here, more space and fewer people – but the pavement bakes just the same. He ducks back inside and tosses his flannel and his tool belt to the floor, just out of the way of foot traffic. His things will be safe there for a while; these few days of preparation before a shoot begins are incredibly busy but they are less hectic, and the suits won’t be around to take a look at the progress until at least tomorrow. 

Steve squints into the bright sunlight, taking a cautious moment to survey the back lot before moving. The alleys between studio spaces can be as hazardous as a city street when production is in full swing, but today, at least in this corner of the Paramount stages, is low key. It seems their film is not the only one in the process of ramping up. 

“Où est-ce qu'il va?” Steve hears Dernier ask Gabe. Steve’s picked up enough French over the years to know what’s being said. The question is about him, but not directed at him, so he chooses not to answer it. 

“Cap, you gonna eat?” Jones calls, and Steve turns to see him and Dugan pulling some apple boxes up to sit, Morita lounging on the pavement with his feet propped up on a sandbag. Dernier and Falsworth are sharing a furnie blanket, which really, they shouldn’t have and shouldn’t be sitting on. They’re opening their metal lunch boxes and digging in to the meals lovingly prepared for them by their wives. Cold fried chicken and biscuits and ripe red apples, thermoses full of cool lemonade, and freshly baked cookies wrapped in wax paper. 

Steve’s lunch consists of some questionable bologna on stale bread, because it’s Bucky’s turn to do the shopping and he hasn’t quite gotten around to it yet. 

“Come join us, Captain,” Falsworth encourages kindly, waving him over, but Steve gestures over his shoulder in the opposite direction.

“I think I’m going to take a walk, stretch my legs.” 

“We’re on our feet all day, the dang fool,” Dugan mutters around a mouthful of chicken as Steve turns and ambles away. 

It’s silly, but some days when he’s feeling a little rough, he treks to the sets that are designed to look like New York City. Luckily, Stage 30 isn’t that far from “Brooklyn” so he won’t spend too much of his break today making the walk. They’re shooting some De Havilland picture down at the end of the avenue at “Washington Square,” but he avoids getting in their way and finds a stoop on which to cop a squat.

Of course, this doesn’t really feel like home. It smells all wrong and it sounds all wrong, but there’s enough here in the familiar architecture to be vaguely comforting. 

It’s actually very quiet on this vacant street, and the warmth of the sun makes him feel lethargic. The previous night's lack of sleep is hitting him now, and it's hitting him hard. He shouldn’t have sat down. 

His eyes drift slowly closed.

“This _is_ impressive. They’ve even added bums for authenticity.” 

Steve jerks back awake, snapping toward the sound of someone’s amused voice. 

“All we need now are some pigeons and the stink of the subway and it will be as if I never left home.”

The person standing above him is backlit by the sun and it makes it hard for him to make out anything more than his shape, and perhaps the light glinting off a pair of sunglasses.

He shades his own eyes with his hand and slowly the man standing there comes into focus. 

Steve scrambles up, his cheeks flushing pink with something other than the heat.

“Mr. Stark.”

*******

Tony is not a fan of Greenwich Village in actuality. He is even less excited about the poor representation of it in front of him, dressed up to look like the late 19th century. Horse-drawn carriages line up in front of the Georgian façades; extras in period-appropriate garb stroll as elegantly as they can while dolled up to the nines in this heat.

He _would_ have to pick what is likely to be the hottest day of the year to walk around outside for hours. Though…he hadn’t picked it – Pepper had, so he supposes that she’s to blame for the way he’s sweating through one of his most expensive suits. 

There’s a bit of a to-do when Olivia De Havilland and Montgomery Clift finally arrive to set, their stand-ins gratefully ducking out to go find some shade. He smiles when Thomas looks back at him for his reaction; he’s probably supposed to be impressed, just as he was probably supposed to be awed when he shook William Wyler’s hand, or when they crossed paths with Claude Rains earlier in the day on a different set. 

With his father being who he was, Tony had grown up in the presence of some of the world’s most powerful men. It takes more than Melanie Wilkes to wow him. 

Realizing that everyone, Pepper included, is momentarily distracted, Tony slowly starts backing away from the crowd. Sufficiently convinced that no one is paying him any mind whatsoever, he turns heel and slips away as casually as he can. 

Away from the hubbub, the backlot is strangely empty. It’s odd to go from a bustling hive of action to desolate sidewalks, but it’s a good kind of odd, a soothing kind of odd. It makes him feel a world away. The architecture is turning from the Upper West Side into Brooklyn when Tony stumbles across someone else who must have also been seeking the solitude.

Tony turns to go in the opposite direction, not wanting to be caught out and sent back to set with a scolding, when the lightning bolt of recognition hits him. 

The man sprawled out on the stoop across the street is none other than the mystery man from earlier. 

Tony’s walking over before he has time to think about what he’s doing. 

Getting closer, Tony realizes the man is asleep, or doing a good impression of it. He knocks the man’s leather work boot with the polished toe of his Oxfords. 

“This _is_ impressive. They’ve even added bums for authenticity,” Tony quips loudly when the man doesn’t stir. The joke does the trick, the man snapping to like he’s been slapped awake. 

As opening lines go, it’s not a great one. Belatedly it occurs to him that he’s insulted this utter perfection before him, but he’d gone with it and now it’s too late to take it back. So he commits. 

“All we need now are some pigeons and the stink of the subway and it will be as if I never left home.”

The man stands up, fair cheeks pink from the sun, and a frown creasing his face.

“Mr. Stark.” 

Tony has to admit, this does throw him for a loop. It shouldn’t – people know who he is, it’s not so unbelievable that this stranger would too. Nevertheless, it’s the way the man says his name so crisply, like he knows more about him than his name, that sets Tony off guard. 

“I apologize, but I don’t think you’re supposed to be alone back here.” 

“Are you supposed to be here?” Tony counters, suspecting that they’re both where they should not be. 

“I work here, sir.”

“Oh, because it looked like you were sunbathing.” 

“I was just taking a break. I should probably be getting back.” Tall, blond and beautiful looks down to his wrist, then pats his pockets. He sighs with resignation, apparently realizing he’s left his watch somewhere else. 

“Are you with that boring Henry James flick down there?” Tony points from whence he came. “Then I don’t blame you in the slightest for wandering. That’s precisely what drove me to Brooklyn. And I tell you, I usually avoid Brooklyn when at all possible.”

This earns him yet another frown. He’s doing very well here. 

“I’m not with that picture, no. May I escort you back to set, Mr. Stark?”

“You have me at quite the disadvantage here – you know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

The man hesitates slightly at this, which only piques his interest.

“Steve Rogers,” he finally says. Tony stops walking. 

“Steve Rogers. _You’re_ Steve Rogers.” Tony repeats. He holds up a hand, blocking the upper portion of Steve’s face from his line of vision, remembering that nose, mouth and jawline below the cowl and imagining the incredible body in front of him dressed in Captain America’s red, white and blue costume. 

“I happened to know your father, during the war.”

“Captain America, in the flesh.” Tony forces a smile through the disappointing revelation that the man who has held sway over his mind all day long is in fact the one man he’d wished to avoid. “No one seems to know what happened to you, after. You’re still an actor?”

Steve chuckles a little at that, which makes Tony feel victorious even as he’s sure he should be giving up this whole conversation and walking away. 

“I was hardly an actor _then_ , it’d be hard to be one still." His voice changes slightly, turning deep and warm like a really nice, smooth bourbon going down. His smile is slightly crooked and it's nothing if not endearing. "I’m actually behind the scenes now. Set design.”

“Set design. That’s unfortunate, you have the face for the flicks.”

Steve shifts awkwardly in front of him, avoiding his look. 

“I’m…I’m where I should be.” His words go slightly soft at this, then it's back to that formal tone he began with. “And speaking of where I should be, I really am needed back on my own set, and your people are probably wondering where you are.” 

“Probably,” Tony agrees. He lets himself be guided back in the direction of Washington Square. 

They walk in silence for a short while. Tony’s skin is itching, his heart beating slightly too fast. The very idea of Steve Rogers has long been a thorn in his side, a nagging reminder of everything wrong between himself and Howard. 

He’d expected to hate the man if they were ever to meet. Instead, Tony wants nothing more than to see him again. 

He reaches into the inside pocket of his double-breasted suit and pulls out his silver card case. 

“Here, please take this.” Tony hands Steve one of his business cards. Steve takes it gingerly. “I’m sure you know that I’m getting into the movie business. I’d like you to give me a call, perhaps we can work together on a project.”

“You’re in need of a set designer?” 

“Sure,” Tony shrugs. “I’m also in need of a star.”

“Mr. Stark –”

“Call the number, we’ll get a meeting on the books.”

“Tony!” Pepper is stalking toward him, which is quite a feat in her fashionable high heels. “There you are! Where have you been?” 

Mr. Lowell is shortly behind her, looking hugely relieved at seeing him. 

“Call it.” Tony mouths to Steve, mimicking a phone with his hand, and then turns to greet Pepper. By the time he’s done soothing ruffled feathers, Steve is long gone.


	4. The Central Question

“Just so we’re clear, pal – I did not know this was a setup when I came here tonight.”

Darcy Lewis stubbornly holds his gaze, cool blue eyes daring Steve to doubt her. He gets the sense that she’ll judge him harshly if his stare wavers in return, so he resists the urge to glance away and relieve the tension. 

Thankfully, Darcy’s boss interrupts, turning in her seat on the couch to face them. 

“Darcy, you _begged_ me for weeks – no, _months_ , even – to make introductions.” Jane picks up her full glass of red wine from the coffee table and uses it to gesture toward her assistant. “Don’t lie to this poor man.”

Jane Odinsson is slight and delicate, and her often-reserved demeanor and restrained elegance might lead one to misread her entirely. Touch on the right topic or offer an ill-conceived opinion, and Jane turns feisty.

After a couple of glasses of wine, she can be downright _fiery_ , and Thor has just refilled her cup for the third time. 

“And if I knew tonight was the night that you were finally going to cave, I would have worn something better than these old rags and I would have bothered with my hair,” Darcy snaps back, touching her lustrous dark curls. To Steve, she looks perfectly beautiful, but he suspects that doesn’t actually matter. 

It’s odd, because as much as Darcy claims to be humiliated, she’s enumerating her perceived failings very plainly without any semblance of embarrassment. Steve isn’t quite sure what to make of her. 

He thinks he should be put off by her brash attitude. Instead, even as Jane and Darcy continue to talk about him as if he’s not sitting right there, he finds himself somehow charmed. 

“Ever since you saw that photograph of Thor’s, you’ve been pestering me about him non-stop. And now here you are, the two of you, together, and what are you doing?” Jane makes a raspberry noise and makes a _splat_ gesture with her free hand. 

Darcy turns back to look at him, nonplussed neither by Jane so openly stating Darcy’s interest nor by Jane commenting so bluntly on how the evening has progressed thus far. She has her legs crossed, her silk stockings on clear display. She folds and rests her manicured hands over her knee as she squares her shoulders, ready to make a demand of him. 

“Steve, answer me this. Just this one thing. Did they tell you I was going to be here? Did they tell you _why_ I was going to be here?” Darcy points to Natasha and Bucky, who are standing at the record player, enviably comfortable in one another’s space. Steve knows they’ve heard every word exchanged, despite the fact that they’ve carefully engaged Thor in a separate conversation for the past five minutes. 

“That was two things.” Jane leans over and points out, hiccupping in punctuation of the sentence. 

“Natasha has a habit of doing this.” Steve shrugs slightly. He’s not happy about the turn the evening has taken, but he’s grown to expect it every now and again from his friends. Honestly, he _should_ have known this wasn’t a simple dinner between pals. Bucky and Natasha might not be together at the moment, but they’re still thought of as a pair by others, and that means that Steve was the only one invited that’s not half of a two. A setup was practically a foregone conclusion. “I may not have been told in advance but I can’t say as I’m surprised.” 

He lifts his drink to Darcy in a toast of commiseration. Darcy snorts a laugh and clinks her glass against his before taking a long, long sip. Steve’s eyebrows rise as she drains it empty. 

Darcy leaves behind bright red lipstick on the edge of her glass. She’s got a pretty smile, and her eyes spark with mischief to accompany her wide grin.

“Maybe you and I should just run off together, Stevie, put a stop to these blind dates once and for all.” She pulls a cigarette from a slim silver case and holds it out to him between two fingers. 

He doesn’t smoke, but he should really carry a lighter for these types of moments. That would be suave. Bucky is always ready for _exactly_ these types of moments. 

“Allow me, my lady,” Thor gallantly swoops in and provides Darcy a flame. Steve blushes sheepishly. 

“Don’t worry, I won’t hold it against you.” Darcy winks at him, and he is actually a little shocked she _doesn’t_ follow that up with a lewd come-on of sorts. When Natasha had told him that he would need a daringly bold woman, he thinks she may have conjured Darcy into existence.

“By the way, _this_ ,” Jane gestures around them in a circle. “This is not a blind date.” Jane takes Darcy’s cigarette from her, stubbing it out in the glass ashtray on the center of the coffee table, next to the candy dish. 

“Hey, what –” Darcy’s protest is moot.

“I’m telling you right now, one day we’re all going to find out that these things are awful for us.” Jane holds her finger up in warning. Darcy attempts to counter yet again, but Jane brings it back to her main argument. “And it’s _not_ a blind date if you saw his picture. His picture is what prompted this whole evening, if you recall.”

“But he didn’t see mine!” Darcy exclaims. “For god’s sake, Jane, you’re in public relations, yet you couldn’t smooth the way a little? Talk me up, sell the goods.” She fluffs her curly brown hair, then adjusts the off-the-shoulder straps of her red dress, pulling the whole ensemble _lower_ , not higher.

Steve sends an entreating glance in Bucky’s direction, desperate for a rescue. Usually, he and Bucky are constantly in some kind of contact throughout an evening. Even if they aren’t by each other’s side, he’s always aware of where Bucky is and how he’s faring, while Bucky is silently watching out for him. Natasha refers to it as an unbreakable rubber band, only allowing one to stretch so far before snapping back within reaching distance. 

So Steve knows that Bucky is deliberately avoiding his look now, that he _knows_ Steve is trapped in this situation and he’s not going to do a thing to help him escape it. Bucky _wants_ him to be caught here, between lushy Jane and lusty Darcy. 

Steve chastises himself for the unkind thoughts. He’s clearly more agitated than even he realized. 

“What exactly do you have in your pocket, Steve?” Darcy is asking him now, the conversation evidently rounding back on him. He’s confused by the question.

“Pardon?”

“You’ve been worrying something in your hand all night long, you keep taking it in and out of your pocket. It's clearly not a lighter," she jokes lightly. "So, what is it, a good luck charm?” She’s dialed back the flirtation a bit, but not by much. At least this seems more of a question borne of actual curiosity than the set up for another coy tease. A question about his hand in his pocket could easily have gone somewhere a lot less innocent. 

Steve takes out the small piece of white paper stock, bent and folded and wrinkled and worn around the edges. He’s taken it out every night and considered just throwing it away, but he always places it on his night table instead, where it stays until he dresses the next morning. 

He has not made use of the phone number embossed on its front, the black lettering starting to fade from where his fingers have traced over the lines one too many times. 

“It’s nothing, just a business card.” Steve holds it up between two fingers, meaning to show it as nothing at all important. He didn’t expect Darcy to snatch it from his grasp, though he probably should have. 

“Why are you carrying this ratty thing around? Looks beat to hell. Is it a treasured keepsake from a lady friend, you old dog? I bet you –” Darcy stops, taking in the name written on the card. “Tony Stark? Who are you _really_ , that you just happen to have _Tony Stark’s_ business card haphazardly crushed in your pocket?”

Bucky looks at him, eyes narrowing. 

Steve has everyone’s attention now. 

“Where did you get that?” Bucky asks, and Steve very nearly wants to ignore him, annoyed that _this_ of all things is what gets Bucky to finally step in. 

“I ran into him on the lot. The other day.” Steve mumbles, not wanting to make it a big deal. 

“And he just…gave you his number.” Steve can hear the suspicion in Bucky’s voice.

“I told him I was in set design; he mentioned possibly having some work for me.” It’s not exactly a lie; Tony might instead be interested in him as an actor, but he _had_ offered him a job opportunity. “And my crew,” Steve adds belatedly, trying to sell the encounter better. 

“Well.” Bucky crosses his arms over his chest, and for a moment Steve thinks he’s actually angry at this lie of omission. “Guess you’re caught out, pal - you owe me a dollar.” Steve’s brow furrows, it taking him a moment to remember the wager from so long ago. Bucky shakes his head, scoffing at Steve’s incorrect prediction. “You said we’d never even meet the man, and here you are with an engraved personal invitation to his office.”

Steve reaches for the business card, wanting this conversation to be over, but he can’t get it without rudely invading Darcy’s space and outright snatching it from her hand. 

“That’s hardly –”

“Did you call him?” Jane inquires, taking the card from Darcy to inspect it herself. Steve doesn’t respond immediately, not sure how to explain why he hasn’t made an overture if it in fact does mean more work. Everyone always wants more work. 

His unease must be written all over his face.

“You didn’t call him? Why in the world would you _not_ call him?” Darcy and Jane are both appalled; out of the corner of his eye, Steve can see Natasha lift an eyebrow at him archly, lips pursing. She’s displeased, but probably not for the same reasons as the two women sitting beside him.

“We’re not big on the Starks,” Bucky provides, crossing the room to Thor’s bar to fix himself another drink. 

“Why ever not? This Tony Stark is quite a powerful man, from my understanding. Would it not be beneficial to have him as a business associate, and perhaps a friend?” Thor glances between Steve and Bucky, genuinely perplexed.

“Bucky has _opinions_ on New York hot shots swanning into Hollywood thinking they can fix it.” Natasha cuts in, rolling her eyes, evidently familiar with Bucky’s diatribes from other occasions. She saunters toward Steve and takes a seat on the armrest beside him. Her long fingers curl over his shoulder, her arm a reassuring weight against his back. Her position might seem improper and casual, perhaps even too intimate, if taken by someone else, but she makes it look perfectly acceptable.

“But you are both from New York, are you not?” Steve snorts over Thor’s question; the man has a point.

“I’m touched you think I’m some kind of hot shot, Thor,” Bucky smirks as he clinks fresh ice cubes into his glass. He gestures to Steve with the tongs before dropping them back into the ice bucket. “Steve, however, he did some work with Howard Stark, once upon a time. Darcy, you may be too young to remember –”

“Buck, don’t.” At his plea, Natasha’s hand tightens on his shoulder. 

“ – but Jane, you certainly recall –”

“ _Please_ , Bucky, I –”

“ – _Captain America_?”

Steve slumps. Of course, it was only a matter of time before their newest friends discovered this information about him. It wasn’t exactly a secret. But he’s not really in the mood for the usual song-and-dance tonight: smiling when someone inevitably remembers the theme song, laughing when another someone recalls the tight costume, pretending not to be flustered and embarrassed by his brief time in the spotlight. 

Captain America is not who he is, yet it always comes back to this. 

Bucky’s right, in his way. Captain America is precisely why he didn’t call Tony Stark. He became Captain America because it was the best option available to him at the time. He became Captain America to do _something_ , as a means to an end – a mere stop on the way to being a better soldier, becoming a more useful man. It was never meant to define him, and he doesn’t want that kind of attention ever again. 

Steve braces himself for the familiar reaction.

“Never heard of him.” Jane nudges Steve with her elbow lightly, conspiratorially, and relief washes over him. Her gaze ticks upward to Natasha, who must signal her own approval because a small smile curls at the edges of Jane’s mouth and Natasha’s hand relaxes on his shoulder. “And did you just imply that I’m _old_ , Bucky Barnes?” 

“I think he did.” Darcy agrees. She continues over Bucky’s blustering protest. “And if _you_ aren’t going to call Stark, can I keep this?” She retrieves the business card from Jane’s grasp and examines it. “A big get like Stark for our client list might mean someone might actually have to start paying me to do this job.”

“You’re paid!” Jane protests. Darcy shoots her a dark look.

“At an assistant’s wages, I may as well be working for free.”

Steve holds his hands up to signal that there’s no need to hand it back.

“It’s all yours.” There’s no good reason for him to ask for its return if he’s never going to call the man. He shouldn’t have held onto it this long, and he should probably be glad the decision of whether or not to keep it is not really in his hands any longer. 

Instead, he feels panicked as Darcy opens her purse and slides the card carefully into her pocketbook. It feels like he’s losing something. 

Steve abruptly gets up from his seat on the couch. 

Once he’s standing, he realizes he has nowhere to go. 

“I’d love some air – it’s growing quite warm in here, don’t you think? Steve, perhaps I could show you the veranda?” Jane rises as well, her hand curling over his forearm. She’s already leading him from the room. 

He always thought Natasha was just quite adept at reading him, but maybe all women are this remarkably astute and he’s simply never been around them enough to realize it. 

“My darling Jane, should I be concerned?” Thor gestures between his wife and Steve, but his smile is broad and his tone jovial. 

“Yes, dear, be desperately jealous.” Jane deadpans back, and opens the double French doors leading to the patio and the backyard. 

Dugan and Morita have houses like this now too, ranch-style homes with full yards and attached garages, situated on quiet cul-de-sacs twenty minutes outside downtown. Thor and Jane’s home is only one year old, just like their marriage, and their backyard is still sparse. Flat green grass and growing saplings where once a dense forest stood. 

Jane brought her wine glass outside with her, and she smiles at him around its rim as she takes a sip.

“Bucky teases you like he’s your older brother,” she comments, and Steve smiles wryly.

“I think sometimes he gets confused and thinks that’s what he is.”

“You seemed a little uncomfortable back there.”

“Please don’t take offense. Sometimes I think uncomfortable is my natural state.” Steve feels his face heat, only proving his point. “I’ve never been all that great with people.”

“I think you’re being hard on yourself,” Jane shrugs. “Bucky wasn’t helping, and Darcy can be a bit overwhelming. Perhaps Natasha and I should have given you a _little_ warning.”

“If we’re being honest, I’m sure Natasha thought I’d make excuses not to come if given the opportunity. Nothing against Miss Lewis – I’m just against the general idea of being set up at all.” He’d been done with that even before the war, thanks to the thoroughly unsuccessful double dates that Bucky would arrange.

“Well, if we’re being honest,” Jane echoes, “I should also probably tell you I already knew you were Captain America. Before tonight.” She leans into him in the way that slightly tipsy people do when they’re unsteady on their feet. “In fact, I had my picture taken with Captain America when he was in Pittsburgh for a show in ’42. I was seventeen and my girlfriend dared me to kiss you on the cheek.” She laughs and kisses her hand, then presses it to his cheek playfully. 

“Oh, that was _you_!” Steve kids, joining her in laughter. He has absolutely no recollection of this. By Pittsburgh, the crowds were a blur.

“I still have the photograph,” Jane grins, and then gasps, looking back to where her husband stands in the living room, gesturing wildly as he regales Bucky with some crazy story from his youth. “Maybe Thor _should_ be worried.” 

“I’ll be on my best behavior, try not to sweep you off your feet.” He manages a charming smile despite his blush. 

“Good. Darcy might turn green with envy,” she stage whispers, and then pushes his arm gently with one hand. “Hey – does this mean I’ve known you longer than anyone else here besides Bucky?”

“I think it does,” Steve plays along with the joke. 

“Then, Steve, as one of your oldest friends, let me give you some advice.”

“I’d welcome it.”

“Call Tony Stark. Just…call him. You have nothing to lose.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“At the very least, you would get a good story out of it. We can only hear about Thor’s hunting expedition in Lapland so many times.” 

“Well, something truly extraordinary would have to happen to top that particular tale. I don’t think that’s a challenge I want to take on.”

“You won’t know until you try.” Jane pats him on the elbow and heads inside, passing Natasha on her way. Natasha clinks glasses with her as they exchange places, Jane returning to her husband’s side indoors and Natasha joining him on the patio. 

She’s quiet for a long moment, the chirping of crickets soothingly filling the silence. 

“She’s not wrong, you know. Stark could be a good thing for you. A boost for your career.”

“Bucky doesn’t think so.”

“And Bucky knows what he’s talking about?” Natasha’s amused chuckle is throaty and deep. Her low voice has always been more of a cat’s purr than a birdsong. “I know Bucky’s opinion matters the most to you of anyone’s, but you’ve never had a problem forming opinions of your own, Rogers. What did you think of Tony Stark when you met him? Anything like his father?”

“I think he might be even more of an asshole than Howard, if you pardon the language.”

“Oh, my delicate ears, how will I recover,” Natasha sighs in a Southern accent, fanning herself. “Assholes are a dime a dozen in this town, Steve. If you avoid them, you’re going to be out of a job. So the question is, is Stark the kind of asshole you can work with, or no?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.” Tony leaves him unsettled, and if he’s honest with himself, it’s not just because Tony had been rude and arrogant. It’s because despite those things, Steve had still felt drawn to him. That spark of annoyance had lit something else on fire inside of him, something much, much harder to douse. 

As scared as he is of being a powerless cog in someone else’s machine, he’s equally scared of being powerless to this immoral desire, the need to _touch_ Tony’s dark hair and press his lips to that wicked mouth. 

“Just…make sure you’re not turning things down for the wrong reasons, okay? You can handle whatever comes your way, and you deserve to be successful. Your past is nothing to run from. You should be proud of what you’ve done.”

“You make it sound like I’m ashamed of the Captain, Nat. I’m not, not really. I just…I don’t want to go back.” Steve rests his weight against the wooden railing of the patio and looks out over the yard. It’s dark out now and getting darker, but in every direction Steve can see the warm, glowing lights in the windows of neighbors’ homes. 

“That’s easy enough, because there’s really nowhere to go but forward.” Natasha leans her head on his shoulder, tucking one arm around his elbow. Steve turns his own head and buries his nose in Natasha’s hair, breathing in her warm, flowery smell. He presses a brotherly kiss to her temple and pats her hand. 

“We should go back inside before both Thor and Bucky think I’m trying to steal both their girls.” 

“Can’t steal what can never be had, Rogers.” Natasha pinches his thigh and pinches it _hard_. “I am no man’s.”

“Ow, by the way.” Steve pushes her hand away with a mock scowl. He then realizes he has the perfect opening to make his own case. “If you’re no man’s, can we agree that I’m no woman’s? Please? Meaning no more surprise Darcy Lewises?”

“You don’t like Darcy?” It’s not a real question; she’s smiling and completely unsurprised. 

“I don’t dislike her. She’s keen. Just not for me.”

“This was actually Thor’s idea, if you can believe it. Jane has been putting her off for ages.”

“Natasha, I really do mean it. I appreciate the effort but –”

“I get it. No more blind dates.” Natasha takes his hand and pulls him back toward the house. Bucky and Darcy are laughing raucously over something now, Thor holding Jane in his arms as they look on, fondly. “But Steve, you’re kidding yourself if you think you’re not _someone’s._ ”

*******

Tony has been staring at the silent telephone for so long that he physically startles when it finally rings, the button for line one blinking bright white.

He’d been resting his head on his hand, elbow propped on his desk. In his scramble to answer, his elbow slips and he falls nearly face forward against the hard mahogany with an inelegant _thunk_. 

It takes some fumbling before he manages to bring the receiver to his ear, only catching the tail end of Pepper’s sentence.

“ – oss is holding on the line for you.”

“Huh?”

“Mr. Ross. He wants to discuss your hiring of his daughter?”

“Who?”

“Betty Ross, Tony,” Pepper drops the formal tone quickly, exasperated by his forgetfulness. He _might_ be having a hard time focusing over the past week, and it’s beginning to get to her. 

Still, the name doesn’t ring a bell.

“Who?”

“Makeup artist? She specializes in those monster movies, so I’m still not sure why you asked for her.” Tony isn’t sure either. Pepper huffs, knowing what his continued silence means. “Thaddeus Ross is a bigwig over at Universal?”

“Oh…right, right, right.” Tony smiles a little to himself. Honestly, he doesn’t know what he’s going to do with Betty’s talents, but when he’d met Thaddeus at an industry function earlier in the month, he’d witnessed firsthand the way the man treated his daughter; it had been with absolutely no respect. 

It _may_ have pushed some of his well-worn buttons.

“He’s very unhappy. I warned you this might happen if you hired away his own daughter.”

“I’m going to be poaching talent all over town, Pep. That’s the way this works. We’re gonna have to get used to a few ruffled feathers now and again.” Tony shrugs to himself. Ross could thunder until he's red in the face, it makes not the slightest difference to him. He gets the sense that not many people actually like the cigar-chomping blowhard anyway, and the last two pictures he produced wildly underperformed. There are worse people to upset.

“Would you like to take this call, or not? He’s still waiting.”

“Ah, take a message. Tell him that I’m in a meeting with Hitch and cannot possibly be disturbed.”

“Don’t you think I would have known that you were in a meeting with Alfred Hitchcock _before_ I placed him on hold?”

“Ok, fine. Don’t go that big. You can come up with something, I trust your instincts.”

“I thank you for the overwhelming vote of confidence, sir.” Pepper hangs up, and that once-promising light on the telephone goes dark a moment later. 

Tony sighs and resumes his earlier position, slumping even lower this time. 

He lasts five minutes, every tick-tock of the clock taunting him with its utter slowness, before he can’t take it any longer.

He throws open his office door and crosses to Pepper’s desk. 

“Any messages?” 

She peers up at him over the top of her glasses, unamused.

“Besides the message I literally just took from Mr. Ross?” Pepper hands him the pink _While You Were Out_ slip. Tony takes it, crumples it up, and tosses it over his shoulder.

“Besides that one, obviously.” He looks at her expectantly. 

“Oh, yes, let me…” Pepper rifles through some of the papers on her desk. “ _No_ , Tony. No new messages since the last time you asked half an hour ago.”

Tony throws himself down onto one of the leather armchairs arranged along the wall across from Pepper’s desk, slouching petulantly like an angry child. Pepper eyes him wearily.

“Do you think I’m keeping phone calls from you or something? Why, exactly, would I do that?”

“Well, I mean…that is kind of your _job._ To keep the undesirables from bothering me and all. Sorting through the riff-raff.” Tony waves his hand. 

“I promise you, Tony, ‘riff-raff’ or no, I’m not keeping any important messages from you.” Pepper eyes him warily. “You know, you could just _tell_ me who it is that you’re expecting to call.”

“Who says I was expecting a call from someone specific?”

Pepper levels him with a scornful stare, the one that just dares him to treat her like an idiot again. 

Tony quickly scours his brain in search of an adequate cover story.

“Rhodey’s out in Reno for an airshow. You know how I get when he’s at those things.”

“Jealous. You get jealous. And then you beg him to take you along.”

“I do not…I…I just feel better when he’s here in L.A. working under the AMPP, that’s all. Those airshows have all the safety precautions of the Flying Wallendas, for Christ’s sake.”

He’s really just digging himself a bigger hole here. 

“Are you ill?” Pepper asks point blank, rising from her seat and coming around the corner of her desk. Her hand’s already out to feel his forehead as she approaches him. Tony ducks away from her reach, getting up and going back to his office doorway.

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” She doesn’t look at all convinced. “I’m just bored. I’m used to having more to do.”

The phone rings then, and Tony’s heart jumps up into his throat. He steps toward Pepper hopefully. She holds a finger up as she answers, warning him off.

“Stark Pictures, Mr. Stark’s office. Miss Potts speaking. How may I help you?” Pepper glances at him as the person on the other end of the line speaks. “Oh, yes, Phil, hello. How are you?”

Tony backs away quickly, signaling to Pepper that he’s not here, definitely not available to take Phil’s call. Pepper nods, barely stopping herself from rolling her eyes.

“I’m so sorry, Phil, Mr. Stark has just stepped out to lunch. May I have him ring you when he returns?” She jots down another note on the pink pad and then says her good-byes. 

After she hangs up, she rips off the piece of paper and holds it up in the air.

“Should I even bother?” Pepper asks Tony. Seeing the expression on his face, she just sighs, crumples it up and tosses it over her shoulder in mimicry of Tony’s earlier actions. 

Tony retreats into his office, pushing the door closed behind him. At a loss for what to do, feeling like he’s crawling in his own skin, he crosses to the clock on the mantel and winds it, just in case it needs it. 

Perhaps time really had been slowing down.

Then he goes to the window, pulling down on the slats of the blinds and surveying the parking lot below. The day is blindingly sunny, the sky a cloudless blue, and Tony’s already growing tired of this endless summer. He wants weather to match his mood, but Los Angeles never seems to change. 

He closes his eyes, thinking of his last night in New York, reflections of neon lights streaking and shimmering over wet pavement, wind whipping down the sidewalk and around street corners. 

He thinks of sitting in his favorite coffee shop, warmth of a cup of coffee cradled between his hands fighting off the damp chill seeping into his bones. In his imagination, the bell above the door chimes, and along with a gust of cold air and rain, Steve enters. 

What once was a memory slips easily into fantasy, safe yet sensual. There’s intense desire there, but it feels more like completion, something slotting into place that he’s always needed but never had, rather than something he merely _wants_. 

In his mind’s eye, every detail of Steve’s appearance seems heightened, as if the rest of the world has gone blurry and soft and Steve is brilliantly defined. Steve’s blond hair is darkened to brown with rain, matted and messy across his forehead until he pushes it back with those long, strangely delicate fingers. Tony can jealously trace the path of each droplet of water running down Steve’s chiseled face, rain caressing the sharp lines of his cheekbones and his strong jaw like Tony’s hands long to do. 

He’s still dressed as he had been on the backlot, and his white t-shirt is soaked through, clinging to his biceps and chest like a second skin. Tony blinks and Steve is already across the room and at his side. He’s slightly out of breath and his cheeks are flushed with varying shades of pink, his lips tinged red as if they’ve been bitten, or maybe kissed. His bare arms are covered in gooseflesh, and so pale that Tony can see the blue-green of his veins running underneath the thin, delicate skin. His blue eyes are dark in the dimness of the café, and even his eyelashes – black despite his fair hair and so impossibly long – are damp. Water drips from his body onto the floor, and Tony watches as the pool of liquid seeps from around Steve’s feet to creep toward his. 

Every cell in his body sparks toward Steve’s, and Tony swears there’s strain from resisting his pull, like it’s a physical act, like it actually aches _not_ to reach out and touch him. 

“Hello,” Steve says softly, looking at him in a way that Tony can _feel_ right down to his toes. Suddenly it doesn’t matter that they’re in public. 

“Hello,” Tony answers and rises from his seat. His hand is on Steve’s stomach, peeling that wet fabric upward so he can touch bare skin, feel the lines of muscle shifting underneath his fingertips. His belt buckle is mere inches from Tony’s hands and Tony reaches down, pushes worn leather through metal. He pushes the copper button through its hole, drags the zipper down. There’s nothing but bare skin underneath. Steve inhales sharply. Tony looks up at him, finds Steve staring down at him with barely concealed lust. He's trembling.

“It’s raining,” Steve states, and Tony doesn’t know why. It sounds like the words actually mean something else. 

“You’re cold.” He replies, equally bewildering.

“I know.” Then they’re kissing. New York continues to pass by the large plate glass window in a waterlogged blur of trench coats and black umbrellas, and the rest of the café becomes nothing more than warm light and a murmur of chatter and clinking dishes. 

Tony comes back to himself with a shaky gasp, startled by the force of the simple daydream. His lips are tingling as if the kiss were real. His heart beats wildly in his chest; sweat breaks over his skin. His cock is blindingly hard, bulging insistently in his trousers, but that seems desperately beside the point. He reaches back behind him, finding the edge of his desk in order to steady himself.

He looks around the room, a little panicked, searching out the clock yet again. He’d been lost in the fantasy for mere minutes, but it feels like he’d lost hours to it. 

Something in this infatuation with Steve Rogers has just shifted, and it seems wrong that all that could have happened in between three or four pushes of that tiny black minute hand. 

Tony sits down at his desk and lays his palms flat on its cool surface. He wills himself to calm, his arousal to abate. But just shifting in his chair feels like too much, the fabric of his pants brushing against his skin nigh unbearable. 

Pulling his handkerchief from his breast pocket, Tony unfastens his trousers and pulls his hard length out with a sigh of relief. He doesn’t bother to get up and lock the door. It only takes a couple of rough pulls and the thought of Steve’s lips sucking at his tip, blond head bobbing between his thighs; Tony comes quickly and quietly, one surprised gasp pushing past his lips, and the heavy load caught carefully in the red square of silk covering his other hand. 

Beleaguered, he stares at the sticky mess, the wet warmth seeping through the thin fabric to his palm. 

“Well… _fuck_.” Tony crumples up the handkerchief and tosses it onto his desk, the trash too far away at the moment. Dejectedly, he looks down at his lap. The sight of his softening dick just lying there, and knowing he just impetuously jacked off like a fifteen year old kid who couldn’t help himself, makes him sigh with embarrassment. 

Tony fixes himself up as best he can, tucking his still sensitive cock back into his pants and zipping up, then smoothing down his clothes, straightening his tie. He runs a hand through his hair and then stands up, surprised to find his legs are still shaky underneath him. 

After throwing away the evidence of his less-than gentlemanly activities, he opens the door once more. 

Pepper looks concerned.

“Are you sure you’re not coming down with something? You’re all flushed, Tony, and you don’t seem well.”

“I have had better days,” Tony admits without actually telling the truth. “But I’ll be fine.” Before Pepper offers more observations regarding his awful appearance, Tony presses on. “I’d like you to set up a meeting with Steve Rogers. You can do that, right? You said you had his information, or something?”

“I have his old agent’s number…a Miss Peggy Carter. We’ve already been in touch with her regarding the _Captain America_ items in storage; she’s offered to reach out to Mr. Rogers on our behalf.”

“Okay. Well, have her reach then. I want to meet with him. Make it dinner somewhere.” Pepper seems surprised at the suggestion. “Uh, I thought I’d keep it casual. Already enough heaviness there with my father and everything, right? Let’s not make it worse.”

“I’m pretty sure that all of the… ‘heaviness’…is on your part here, Tony. So I think it’s probably all up to you how this meeting goes.” Pepper is already flipping through her Rolodex, muttering to herself. “Carpenter, Carson…Carter, here we go.”

She picks up the phone, finger poised to turn the rotary dial. 

“You’re sure about this?”

Tony pauses to consider it, but not for long.

“Set it up.”

*******

Steve tries not to fidget as he sits silently in the passenger seat; the red leatherette upholstery squeaks a little whenever he moves.

While he’s never been comfortable with sitting in the back alone with the driver up front – he’s a poor kid from Brooklyn and that whole class division reeks of snobbery – he’s stuck here now next to Tony’s driver in the small front cab of the coupé, and sitting beside someone demands conversation. He can’t think of a single thing to say to the man.

Happy senses his discomfort; Steve’s simultaneously embarrassed and grateful.

“I apologize for the unusual arrangement. Tony insisted I pick you up in the Delahaye. Between you and me, pal, I think he might be showing off a bit.” Happy actually nudges him with his elbow good-naturedly, and Steve tries to loosen up. 

“I did tell Miss Carter that I was perfectly fine to get there on my own, but apparently Mr. Stark insisted…” Steve easily could have walked the short distance from their apartment to the hotel, though he’s slightly glad he wouldn’t be showing up to the meeting in a sweat-stained suit. He’s already positive that he’s going to look underdressed and out of style when sitting beside Tony Stark. “I’ll make sure to tell him that I was impressed, though. You sure don’t see a car like this everyday.” Steve runs a hand along the chrome detailing on the inside of the bright red door. 

“She is a real beaut.” Happy pats the dash like a proud father. “One of the perks of this job. Not that I need perks, mind you. Tony’s a great boss. Helluva guy.”

Steve gets the distinct feeling that he’s being sold on something, and he wonders if he’s been as obvious about his unease with Tony as he was about being chauffeured. He smiles at Happy and nods, hoping it will pass for tacit agreement.

Not sure what else to say that won’t be a lie, Steve turns his focus out the window, watching Sunset Boulevard slip by. Shortly after they pass the Garden of Allah, Happy signals and pulls to the right. 

“Here we are, Chateau Marmont.” Happy announces as he slows to a gentle stop in front of the shaded entrance to the hotel, marked by white stone walls and a small sign that one could easily pass by if one weren’t looking closely. The building itself is hard to miss, however, the gothic architecture reminiscent of a small, strange castle – part French, part L.A., and, Steve thinks, wholly out of place. 

Steve thanks Happy for the ride, opting to walk the short, stone driveway up to the arched doorway. The lobby is small, and despite the large windows, it is rather dark now that the sun has dipped below the hills. It’s not uninviting however, as the table lamps are all shaded with golden yellow glass or beige linen, throwing pockets of warm light over richly upholstered chairs and dark cherry wood tables. 

There is no sign of Tony, so Steve uncomfortably loiters in the lobby, feeling entirely out of place. His suit is old and ill-fitted, a tad too short in the legs and tight in the arms, and a rather unfashionable shade of drab brown. He straightens his navy blue tie for what must be the third or fourth time and then shoves his nervous hands into his pockets to still them. 

No one approaches him, but he’s sure there must be someone on staff eyeing him skeptically and wondering what he’s doing there. They probably have him pegged as some kind of poor, aspiring screenwriter hoping to catch someone important in the lobby to pitch them a script, or perhaps a tourist hoping for an autograph or snapshot with a famous actor or actress on their way out for a night on the town..

Deciding to act like he belongs there, Steve is about to take a seat and force himself to relax, perhaps read an abandoned newspaper, when Tony arrives. He’s like a rock in a small pond, rippling people into motion around him wherever he goes. The concierge who had studiously ignored Steve’s presence approaches Tony quickly, offering to call for a car. 

Tony waves him off and approaches Steve with a confident smile. He’s wearing a gray double-breasted suit that’s tailored perfectly to his lithe frame, his shirt crisply ironed and ivory white, and his black tie held straight with a beautifully designed ruby and gold tack. His black shoes are polished to a high shine; a deep red pocket square caps off the ensemble with a bright dash of color. His mustache and beard are immaculately trimmed, his dark brown hair impeccably styled. 

He looks like the most put-together, in-control man that Steve has ever seen. It exhilarates him even as it unnerves him, makes him feel small and unsure even though he’s so much broader and taller than the man walking up to him now. He feels like the old Steve Rogers for a brief moment, frail and forgotten. 

“There you are,” Tony greets him as if he’s the one who’s been waiting. Steve squares his shoulders and stands up straight as he takes Tony’s proffered hand for a shake. “Thank you for coming to meet me here. I’m having some renovation done on the Malibu house, it’s a bit of a mess. Well, it’s a huge mess, actually. I may have accidentally blown something up. Not a big deal, but it’s a _thing_ and it’s gonna take awhile and all that.”

Steve hesitates for a moment, wondering if he should inquire more about that whole _blown something up_ remark, but decides to let it pass.

“I live nearby, so it was no trouble,” Steve replies, his conversation with Happy coming back into mind. “Thank you for sending Happy. The Delahaye is a beautiful automobile.”

“Oh, is that what he drove?” Tony asks with a practiced nonchalance. “I was wondering which one he’d choose to take out today.”

“Which one? How many cars do you have?” The question seems impertinent the way he asks it, which Steve automatically regrets. He doesn’t mean to be rude, even if he’s not entirely sure he wants to be here. “I mean…”

“I have too many, is the answer, but never enough.” Tony grins at him. “Happy could pick you up every day in a different car for near a month, I think.” Tony’s extravagance should repel him, but that smile sends a spark up Steve’s spine. There’s something about Tony that’s electric, something that makes Steve feel like his whole world is made dull by comparison. Even when he’s saying rude or obnoxious things that logically make Steve recoil, there’s part of him that just wants to hear Tony keep talking if only for the sound of his voice. “You drive, Steve?”

“I learned how, in the war. Never had much need for it before, living in the city, and I guess I don’t have much need for it now.” He shrugs. “I do own a motorcycle.”

“A motorcycle?” Tony’s eyebrow lifts like he’s pleasantly surprised. “I wouldn’t have guessed. What’s the make and model?”

“It’s a Harley WL 45 Flathead, 1946.”

“Good condition?”

“She does okay.”

“Color?”

“Black.” 

“Hmm.” Tony nods once and Steve just sort of shrugs again, not sure what else to say now that the vehicular inquisition has ended. 

“So, should we –” Steve gestures toward the nearest set of armchairs, about to ask Tony to sit down, when Tony steps toward the door and gestures outside.

“I got us a table next door at Players. Are you hungry? I thought we could do this over dinner.”

“That would be fine.” Steve isn’t clear on what _this_ is, exactly. Peggy had been slightly vague on the details. He’d been surprised by her call in the first place, not having heard from her in going on two years. He may have agreed to the meeting partially because he’d been so happy to hear her lovely British lilt after such a long time apart.

He follows Tony to The Players Club, a long, three-level white building with terra cotta shingles and burnt orange awnings that sits in the shadow of the Chateau. Cars are lined up near door-to-door along the building’s front, lights from inside the three different restaurants and the dance hall making all that chrome and polished glass twinkle and shine against the darkness. 

Steve feels a bit like a puppy lagging after his master as they are led through to the restaurant on the top floor. Frequently people look up from the dinner and drinks and nod hello to Tony; a few even get up and stop him to speak for a moment. Steve stands silently as Howard Hughes briefly pays his regards, mentioning something about his days tinkering alongside Tony’s father. 

Steve is ignored by nearly everyone who looks Tony’s way, and he would feel out of place if not for the way in which Tony seems to subtly touch him at all times, checking in and making eye contact even when ostensibly conversing with someone else. 

When they’re finally seated at their table, Tony heaves a sigh of relief and apologizes.

“It’s like running the gauntlet, isn’t it? But we made it out relatively unscathed.” A much too expensive bottle of wine is brought tableside without Tony placing an order; Tony foregoes a tasting and just signals the waiter to fill both their glasses. When the waiter departs, leaving them to their menus, Steve decides that it might be best to be frank now while they’re alone and the night is still early.

“Mr. Stark –”

“Tony, please.”

“Tony, I don’t want to be rude, but I really have no idea what I’m doing here.”

“We’re having dinner.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

Tony’s slight smirk shows that he already knew that full well. He picks up his wine and takes a sip, lips lingering on the edge of the glass and his fingers delicately cradling its curve. 

He sets it back down, pointing at Steve with one finger.

“I’d like you to star in my picture. That’s what this is about.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Look,” Tony holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender, as if Steve is already fighting him on it when in truth he’s still processing the words. “I’d be the first to admit that I didn’t want to go anywhere near that _Captain America_ bull shit when I first got here.”

“Pardon?”

“You should probably know right now that my father and I didn’t exactly see eye-to-eye, to put it lightly. I really want no part of whatever he did here in Hollywood before.”

“All right…” None of this seems like it would lead to this evening, to Tony’s strange request. 

“Then I met you. And I get it, I see it. You have the makings of a star, Steve Rogers.”

“Except I really have no desire to _be_ a star, Tony Stark,” Steve replies pointedly. “I’m a set designer.”

“A good one at that.”

“I try to be.”

“You’re too modest. I’ve seen your work, I’ve heard the talk around town. You’re in demand.”

“Why ever would you think I’m looking for anything else, then?” Steve is truly perplexed. Tony is taking another drink so instead of speaking, he shrugs his shoulders a little like the whole argument is of no matter. 

“Maybe you’re not looking for anything. Maybe it found you. Life works that way sometimes.”

“Not usually, it doesn’t.”

“It does tonight.” Tony retorts, the statement charged with something darker and more promising than any business offer. A look flashes across his face, so quickly that Steve wonders if he’s imagined it. If it had been real, it had also been unmistakably sexual. 

The inner rim of Tony’s mouth is stained dark red from the wine, and Steve wonders what he would taste like if they kissed. Steve drinks from his own glass to busy himself, letting the earthy flavor explode over his tongue. 

“I don’t want to be in it. Your movie. That’s not for me.” Steve states as he stares across the table at Tony, feeling strangely compelled to clarify that it’s just the film specifically that he’s turning down. 

“We can talk about something else then.” Tony leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. It reads as lazy, casual, rather than churlish. The rest of his body language is open and he keeps looking back at Steve as if he can’t be the first one to look away.

“What would you like to talk about?”

“You grew up in Brooklyn. Tell me about that.”

“Not much to tell.”

“I highly doubt that. You’re incredibly compelling.”

“I am?” Steve has to laugh, loudly and honestly, at that. “You’re going to be so disappointed if that’s what you think of me.”

“I don’t think you’re capable of disappointing anyone, Rogers.”

Tony’s laying it on a bit thick, now, and it makes Steve doubt that this attraction he feels is actually going both ways. Tony could just be playing at this in order to get what he wants. He’s brilliant enough and beautiful enough that it’s likely worked well for him in the past. 

For whatever reason, Tony has stubbornly set his mind to Steve in a starring role in whatever this picture is that he’s got lined up. Steve can’t say he entirely understands that, but he does understand that someone rich and powerful like Tony is probably used to getting what he wants. 

“You can flatter me all you like, Stark, I’m not going to change my mind about the film. Like I told you first time we met – I’m no actor.”

“But we’re not talking about the film anymore, are we? That was just flattery for flattery’s sake. You need to be flattered more often if you’re still so unwilling to believe it.” 

Before Steve can respond, the waiter returns to take their dinner requests. Tony orders for them both, arranging for hors d’oeuvres and multiple courses followed by dessert, all without so much as consulting Steve. The meal will be lengthy, and he calls for another bottle of wine to be prepared. 

Steve wants to feel outrage over the presumption, but the fact of the matter is that he hadn’t so much as glanced at the menu and he has no idea what he might have done instead. 

But he lifts an eyebrow in challenge anyway, waiting for Tony to read his expression as the waiter departs with a small bow. _He’s_ certainly pleased with the rather expensive tab Tony’s ringing up.

“I tend to get bossy, and I tend to overcompensate when I’m nervous.” Tony explains matter-of-factly, then winces. “I may also overshare.”

“Why are you nervous?” The knot of anxiety that’s been coiled inside Steve’s stomach relaxes as he recognizes something akin to vulnerability in Tony for the first time all evening. It’s even more winning than that armor of self-confidence. 

Without thinking, he extends his hand halfway across the table, resting it against the pristine white linen with his palm up. It’s not as if Tony can take it, but they both see the gesture for what it is. 

Tony smiles slightly, a different smile that curls gently at the edges of his lips.

“You should tell me about Brooklyn,” Tony says again. He doesn’t address Steve’s question aloud, instead sitting up in his chair and reclaiming his glass of wine. The reflection of candlelight dances in his brown eyes. “I grew up in Manhattan, so you’re basically from a foreign country as far as I’m concerned.” 

Feeling daring, Steve leans forward in his own chair, gesturing for Tony to lean in. The other man complies. He wets his lips, watching Tony’s gaze catch on his mouth, and lowers his voice to a deep whisper. 

“I think I need to tell you…” He looks up at Tony demurely through his lashes. “Your Brooklyn jokes weren’t funny the first time we met either.” 

Tony blinks at him owlishly, then nearly busts his gut laughing. It’s enough to draw some attention from the surrounding tables, but Steve doesn’t care. 

“You’re a real surprise, Rogers,” Tony says, the last name sounding affectionate. “I really didn’t expect to like you so much.”

“You have an odd way of giving compliments, Stark.” 

“I have an odd way of doing everything. I’m an odd person.”

“I believe the rich are called ‘eccentric’.”

“Eh, I don’t think I’ve quite hit that mark yet. Give me a few years, though, I’ll see how crazy I can go.” 

They press pause on their conversation as the hors d’oeuvres arrive – shrimp cocktails, rolled toast with mushrooms, and stuffed olives with bacon. Steve’s glass of wine is refilled before it can go empty. 

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed you dodging my question twice already, by the way,” Tony picks up the abandoned thread, gesturing at him with a piece of shrimp in hand. “Is there a reason you won’t talk about Brooklyn?”

There might be. His childhood hadn’t exactly been idyllic, and Steve’s not sure he wants to share anything so personal with Tony Stark. In spite of – or maybe even _because_ of – the strange pull of attraction between them, Steve doesn’t quite trust the man, or trust himself around him. 

“It’s a story for another time.” Steve finally settles on replying, tilting his glass and looking down at his wine in order to avoid Tony’s piercing gaze. He takes a long drink, buying himself some time to figure out what to say next. He could ask Tony about his own childhood, but that hardly seems like a fair tack to take.

“Why don’t you tell me about the movie you’re working on?”

“I thought you weren’t interested.” Tony starts to look a little self-satisfied, so Steve dashes his hopes quickly.

“I’m still not interested in a role. But does that mean I can’t be interested in your work?” 

“Of course you can. Just didn’t think you would be.”

“We’re part of the same business,” Steve replies by way of explanation. What he does and what Tony does are really worlds apart, but maybe he can learn something. 

“We don’t necessarily have to talk business.”

“I thought that this was a business dinner.” Even as Steve says it, he knows that’s an utter lie. The second he’d seen Tony walk into the lobby that evening, the pretense was rendered useless. He’s here because he’s attracted to this man. And Tony, Tony doesn’t really care about Steve being in his movie. It’s all lame excuses made in order to sit across from each other and vaguely flirt while looking their fill. 

“It doesn’t really have to be either. Business or dinner." Tony states, and his voice does something then, something sensual and sultry yet entirely offhand and casual. Steve would be hard pressed to explain what it does to him to hear it. “I’d rather get to know you …” Tony pauses for a sip of wine, staring at Steve over the rim of his glass. His gaze is mesmerizing; Steve can’t look away. Steve feels his face heat, and arousal tightens low in his stomach as if Tony’s already touching him, kissing him, _fucking_ him. 

“Besides, I’m not particularly hungry.” Tony’s pouty lips twitch into a small, teasing smile. “For anything we ordered, anyway.”

It’s a definite come on, and from anyone else’s lips, Steve might have had to roll his eyes. It’s blatant and not even all that clever. But from Tony… 

Steve shifts in his seat. He’s growing hard, right here, in the middle of the restaurant. As he moves, his leg brushes Tony’s. He hesitates for just a moment but then decides to let it rest there. He knows the signal that sends and right now, he wants to send it. He can feel Tony’s skin, warm against his own body, even through the fabric of their trousers. 

Tony sets down his wine glass and then pulls his money clip from his pocket. Steve should protest but instead all he does is watch Tony’s deft fingers peel off a number of large bills and place them face up on the table. Then Tony signals to their waiter.

“The last time I visited this fine establishment, Preston kindly offered me a tour of the wine cellar. I wondered if I might make use of that offer now?” 

Steve’s momentarily confused, but then the waiter glances at Steve with a slightly panicked look that’s quickly masked by a polite, eager smile. Steve instantly knows that this is not about any wine cellar. 

“Of course, Mr. Stark. If you and the gentleman would like to follow me, I’d be happy to arrange that for you.” He catches someone’s eye across the crowded dining room and nods once, then a moment later once again. 

“Good man, good man.” Tony rises from his seat, palming the waiter a twenty-dollar bill. He winks at Steve and gestures for him to stand as well. 

Steve does, adjusting his blazer to hopefully mask the indecent bulge at the front of his pants. Thankfully, he’s not entirely erect, but even when he’d been small and delicate, that part of his anatomy had been disproportionately large. It unfortunately doesn’t take much for it to become an obscene embarrassment. 

He wishes that they hadn’t checked their coats and hats; at least then he’d have better cover. 

He and Tony don’t speak as they follow their waiter toward the double set of swinging doors at the back of the restaurant that lead to the bustling kitchen. The front of house manager meets them there, appearing as if from out of nowhere. He must have been on the other end of the waiter’s nod.

He’s an elegant older gentleman with a carefully groomed mustache, reminiscent of John Barrymore in _Grand Hotel._ He reaches out to shake Tony’s hand, and then, surprisingly, shakes Steve’s as well. 

“Lovely to see you again, Mr. Stark.” His accent sounds like Falsworth’s, but not quite. In any other circumstance, Steve might have introduced himself and asked him where he once called home, but Steve’s out of place here, and its feels safer to stay silent. 

“Nigel, a pleasure as always. Some weeks ago, I was offered a viewing of your wine cellar, but I demurred. I do hope that’s still possible?” 

“I am of course happy to oblige. I think you’ll find our wine collection most impressive. We will need to go down to the lowest level, so if you’ll forgive the short walk?”

“Of course.” Tony sweeps his arm out, gesturing for Nigel to lead. 

They follow, but at a slightly slower pace that allows the manager some distance ahead. Steve dares to press close along Tony’s side, grabbing his wrist momentarily to get his attention.

“What exactly is going on?” Steve whispers, trying to ignore how it feels when his lips brush Tony’s ear. 

“You’ve followed me this far,” Tony whispers back. Tony’s hand caresses his hip, innocent enough to be passed off as an accidental touch if anyone had been paying attention. They break away from each other as they approach a narrow back staircase that necessitates them to wind their way down in single file. It’s four flights before they come to a heavy oak door with an elaborate lock. 

Behind it is the wine cellar, deep and wide with a rather low ceiling. The walls are a dusty red brick and the room is lined with rack after wooden rack of glass bottles. The floor is cobblestone and the lights give the room a warm glow as if lit by firelight. Steve eyes the labels as he’d led through the labyrinth of the expensive collection, the names impressive and the dates even more so. 

Perplexingly, Nigel pauses along the back wall. Steve glances at Tony as they stop beside one another; it may just be the low light of the cellar, but Tony’s eyes are wide and dark. He’s already breathing slightly fast, however, and Steve doesn’t think he can attribute that to the location. 

Nigel sorts through the large number of keys on his ring and selects one carefully. Steve doesn’t even _see_ the door, much less the keyhole, until Nigel clicks the key into place and turns the lock. 

“Here you are, sirs. If you just follow the corridor for about one hundred-twenty paces, this will lead you directly to the lower level of the Chateau. The elevator can take you directly to your floor. I will arrange for your personal items from the coat room to be messengered to the hotel to await you at the front desk, at your convenience, of course.” 

“Thank you, Nigel. This is much appreciated.” Tony hands the man a bill as well, and Nigel simply bows and excuses himself, leaving Steve alone with Tony and a nearly dark, arched stone hallway that apparently leads back to the hotel. 

The invitation is clear. Steve knows what he _wants_ to do and what he _should_ do, and they’re two entirely different things. 

The sound of the wine cellar door closing echoes through the long room. They’re alone.

Tony’s hands are on his waist, slipping underneath his suit coat to grip his hips firmly. He’s so assured, like he already knows Steve’s body and what he desires; yet it’s still heady and new at the same time, a dangerous and exciting unknown. Tony presses him back against the open door and Steve lets himself be moved, lets Tony crowd against him. 

Tony stops just short of kissing him, lips tantalizingly feather light against his as he speaks.

“You are…” Tony’s hard too, Steve can feel him rubbing against his thigh. “So. God. Damn.” Tony’s hands smooth over his waist and down to his ass, grabbing and holding rather than quickly groping. “Beautiful.” 

“ _Tony_ ,” Steve breathes and closes the miniscule space between them. The kiss is immediately _more_ than a kiss. It’s already leading somewhere, promising something. They tilt and shift to get deeper, mouths open, tongues sliding. Steve’s feeling too warm, his heart thudding out of time in his chest. 

“I love the way you say my name.” Tony mouths along his jaw, down his throat. “I want to hear you scream it.” Steve pulls at Tony’s tie, brings him back to his lips. Tony’s eager hands are already untucking Steve’s shirt; when Tony’s fingers touch his bare skin, Steve groans. 

He doesn’t want to stop this. 

“So don’t.” Tony says. “No one has to know. No one _will_ know.”

Tony kisses him once more, leading him backward into the tunnel with the promise of his talented mouth. Steve lets the kiss break. He needs a moment without Tony’s touch in order to properly think this through. 

He’s denied himself this ever since he understood what _this_ was. What it _could_ be. He’s never put his whole life, everything he’s ever worked for, at risk just because one man was too breathtaking, too beautiful, to turn down. 

Steve stands at the threshold, and looks back to the safety of the wine cellar. He could go upstairs, collect his coat, and go home. That would be the smart thing to do. 

Tony Stark is rude, unpredictable, entitled, and comes with entirely too much baggage. Steve’s tangled up with Tony’s family’s past in ways that he doesn’t think he fully understands and probably never will. 

He’s also rich, he’s famous, and that only makes him more dangerous. 

But he’s the only person who has _ever_ made Steve’s head spin like this. He's already afraid that Tony's the only person who ever will.

Steve looks back to the long corridor. Tony is waiting with his hand outstretched.

“Are you coming?”


	5. The First Turning Point

Steve doesn’t take his hand. 

But he steps forward, pulling the heavy door closed behind him. Without the light from the wine cellar striking the sharp planes of his face, the finer details of Steve’s expression are lost in shadow. 

Tony waits for Steve to come to him. He has Steve’s answer, but it still feels tenuous. This thing between them is the kind of tension that could snap as easily as it could vibrate and give. He doesn’t want to be the one to break it when it could just have easily bent Steve against him. 

“Lead the way.” Steve tips his head in the direction of the hotel. The tunnel ahead isn’t pitch black; every twenty paces or so, a bare bulb emergency light fixture casts a small pool of light. But the Chateau is far enough away, the pathway disappearing around a curve to the left, that the exit is currently something to be imagined and not seen. 

Tony lets his arm fall; he walks backward for a few paces until he’s sure that Steve is actually moving to follow. Once Steve has closed the gap between them, Tony reluctantly turns and faces forward. 

They are near enough to one another that Tony can feel Steve’s body warm behind his, hear his quiet breathing as they move silently down the long hall. It’s not enough. He wants to look back over his shoulder and make sure of the other man’s presence, to gaze directly into those captivating blue eyes, but he’s afraid that Steve will disappear like Eurydice in the Underworld. 

He can’t quite believe this is actually happening. 

He reaches back blindly and his fingers brush Steve’s. The touch is light, almost enough to be passed off as accidental.

Steve accepts the gesture this time. Their fingers twine together loosely, palms barely touching. It grounds Tony a little, but his heart continues to race. While the distance they walk in silence is relatively short, each minute seems to expand infinitely. 

Tony has had a few moments in his life already wherein he knew, immediately, that things from there on out would never be the same. The fight he had with his father over his decision to go to North Africa. Waking up injured and alone as a prisoner of war. 

Walking to the hotel with Steve has that weight, that importance, but Tony’s unfamiliar with the feeling that things are taking a turn for the better, not the worse. He’s never had his life change right in front of his eyes and been brimming with hopeful anticipation like he is right now. 

They come to the elevator and Steve surprisingly reaches around him to push the call button, pressing their bodies close together in the process. Tony finds himself holding his breath, not wanting Steve to back away. 

The doors smoothly open on an empty car; the lush carpet, ornately decorated walls and bright sconces a jarring juxtaposition with the rough, barely finished tunnel they’ve just left. 

Tony walks in first, pulling Steve along gently behind him. The doors slide closed behind them and Tony clicks the gate into place. As he presses his finger to the button for his floor, Steve puts a hand tentatively on his hip. 

“This elevator is private when in use,” Tony mentions casually, as if it were merely an interesting piece of trivia and not a clear invitation. Steve’s grip tightens. Tony places a hand over his and slowly urges Steve’s arm all the way around his waist. Something close to a whimper escapes Steve’s lips when the bulge between his legs nestles perfectly against the small of Tony’s back. Just hard enough to seem purposeful, Tony rubs against him through their clothes, excited by Steve’s obvious arousal. 

Not wanting Steve left on uneven footing, he takes Steve’s hand again and moves it lower. He’s fully erect, the line of his cock visible through his trousers. Tony wants Steve to feel it, to know it’s all because of him, for him. He tilts his head, nuzzling against the side of Steve’s face. Steve groans quietly, lips warm on Tony’s skin as his mouth slides over the curve of his neck.

The kiss that follows sends a shudder down Tony’s spine. Steve’s tongue and teeth lave over the delicate skin of his throat; in the mirrored wall of the elevator Tony can watch what Steve’s doing to him. The visual is as arousing as the physical sensation itself. 

He wants Steve to strip him and take him right there – pick him up and fuck him against the door while Tony watches it reflected back from three different angles.

He turns in Steve’s embrace, the sudden movement jarring Steve into momentary confusion. Tony tilts Steve’s chin up and pulls him into a deep kiss. Steve reacts by urging him back against the wall, pinning him there with his own impressive weight. 

“I want you inside me.” Tony is already undoing Steve’s belt when the elevator slows to a stop. His stomach swoops low at the cessation of movement. Despite the obvious need to restore themselves to some level of decorum before entering the hallway, Tony slips a hand down the front of Steve’s pants anyway, stroking down his full length over the thin cotton of his underwear. 

Steve closes his eyes, dropping his head to Tony’s shoulder. 

“I’m in so much trouble,” Steve says, more to himself than anything. Tony smiles and ducks out from underneath him in order to unlatch the gate. Steve’s hands trail down his body as Tony moves.

“Well you know what they say…‘If you must get in trouble, do it at the Chateau Marmont.’” 

He grins and beckons Steve to follow him out of the elevator. The hallways of the hotel are narrow and winding, full of nooks and dark corners to get up to all kinds of questionable business. Tony’s suite is only around the corner, stretched along the side of the establishment facing the courtyard, with one neighbor across the hall, one above, and one below. 

But even if he and Steve are loud enough to shake the walls, no one will dare speak a word of it. This is where the rich and famous go when they need their secrets kept. 

_Steve Rogers is going to be his secret._

Tony’s hand shakes as he unlocks his door. He glances at Steve, hoping he hasn’t noticed the sudden bout of nerves, but he finds Steve gazing right back at him with this soft, open look that takes his breath away. 

This man is a secret worth having. 

He pushes open the door, and, after taking a split second to look up and down the hallway, grabs Steve’s tie. Tony winds him in close and backs him inside. 

Control just as quickly shifts to Steve as soon as the door slams shut. Steve holds him against it, mouth on his and his hands roaming everywhere. His long fingers and broad palms slip through Tony’s hair, slide down his arms, smooth over his chest, before finally settling to work at the latch of his belt. 

Steve’s own belt is still undone, the button of his pants unclasped. All that’s left is for Tony to tug down the zipper. 

“I want my mouth on you. Can I suck you?” Tony is too riled up to play coy. He drops to his knees even as Steve is still gasping out a yes. He pulls down Steve’s trousers and underwear in one go and takes Steve’s length in hand. There’s a loud thud above his head; Steve had slammed one hand against the door to steady himself as he nearly pitched over.

Tony peeks upward, instinctively concerned at the noise. Steve’s head has dropped forward, chin almost to his chest. His hair falls into his eyes, which look nearly black in the dark room. His perfect teeth are worrying his full bottom lip and his chest is rising and falling with his rapid breath. 

It’s a beautiful sight, but Tony tears his gaze away to take in something else just as pretty. Steve’s dick is hard and warm in his hold, though it had already been standing at attention on its own, pressing urgently up toward Steve’s stomach. He’s impressively long and thick enough that Tony has a moment’s pause about his earlier declaration – but only a moment. Steve’s going to fill Tony up so deep and stretch him so wide, and god, does Tony want that. Steve’s balls are full and tight to his body and frustratingly as symmetrical as the rest of him; his hair is a much darker shade of blonde than what’s on his head, and it’s well-groomed, carefully shaved and trimmed in a manner that leaves Tony wondering if Steve came to meet him tonight hoping for this to happen. It thrills him to think so. 

Steve’s cock is ramrod straight except a very slight curve upward just before the head. That curve, Tony knows from experience, is a curve that will naturally hit that practically perfect spot inside of him. It’s like Steve’s cock has been molded to fit Tony’s body, a god-given gift to provide Tony pleasure. Any thought of asking Steve to bottom disappears so quickly that it’s like he never considered it in the first place. 

Tony slides his hand up to meet his mouth, stroking up as he slips down. Steve’s cock twitches against Tony’s tongue, and Tony pulls off to catch a small pulse of liquid that spills from Steve’s tip. Tony has his free hand on Steve’s chest, stuffed up underneath his still-buttoned shirt and tight undershirt, and he feels all the muscles tense up under his palm. 

“You taste so good,” Tony murmurs, curving his lips into a teasing smile. “Must be all that clean living, Captain America.” 

“Yeah, all that clean living,” Steve laughs, the sound of it tinged sardonic as Tony rubs his cock filthily against his lips, sloppy and wet. He runs his mouth up and down the sides of Steve’s length a few times before swallowing him again. He can only take Steve down two-thirds of the way before Steve’s near hitting the back of his throat, so Tony concentrates a lot of attention on the head, using his hands instead to touch the full length of his cock and to caress over and behind the sensitive skin of Steve’s sac. Steve sighs so heavenly whenever Tony slips a finger farther back to brush over his hole. 

Maybe Steve’s one of those guys who actually _likes_ to switch. Despite the fact he’s a muscular mass of a man, he might still want to bend over and take it from someone smaller. 

Tony dares to hope that they can make this night last long enough to find out. 

Tony presses his finger inside Steve’s body – not a lot, just barely the tip – and Steve’s hips snap forward. Tony had expected it enough to be ready to take it, but Steve pulls back quickly with a rushed apology, drawing out of Tony’s mouth entirely. 

“No, do it, fuck my mouth,” Tony gets his hands on either side of Steve’s ass and urges him back in. 

“Oh, god, Tony, I _can’t_ …” Steve’s fingers tighten in his hair as he thrusts into Tony’s warm mouth. Tony keeps his jaw loose and his throat open, but Steve doesn’t lose control. He goes fast and hard enough to make tears prick at the edges of Tony’s eyes, for him to breathe in sharply through his nose when he can’t quite get enough air, but Steve always backs off before it’s too much. Tony eventually manages to take him in deep, to bury his nose in the thatch of hair between Steve’s legs, the head of Steve’s cock nudging down the back of his throat. 

“I can’t last, Tony, I’m gonna –” Steve chokes off, releasing Tony’s hair and reaching down to grab his own cock, trying to pull out. Tony chases after him, getting his lips back around the head just as Steve starts to come. 

He coats Tony’s tongue with it, flooding Tony’s mouth with the mess. He spends _a lot_ , enough that Tony can feel it drip from his lips and onto his chin, his chest. He doesn't care. Steve actually does taste good – that hadn’t been an ego-stroking lie – barely bitter and surprisingly light. Tony swallows it down greedily and Steve exhales a shaky string of expletives, shuddering all over again. 

Steve’s thighs are trembling and he seems to sway forward; for a moment, Tony thinks Steve’s going to sink down to the floor beside him. But Steve steadies himself, taking his hands from where they’d fallen to grab Tony’s shoulders, and puts them back against the door. Tony stands, his own knees slightly stiff from kneeling. He tucks himself between Steve’s outstretched arms and then takes him by both sides of his collar. 

Steve practically melts into the kiss that follows, chasing the taste of himself in Tony’s mouth. 

When Tony pulls away, he’s treated to the sight of an absolutely _wrecked_ Steve Rogers. His hair is in disarray, his tie pulled loose and his shirt hopelessly rumpled, his suit jacket barely hanging off his shoulders. Even in the dark of the room, Tony can see the color high on Steve’s cheeks, the way his lips are red and swollen from both the force of their kisses and from biting back his moans. His pants and underwear are pooled around his ankles, covering his shoes. It should look silly, but his cock is still half-hard between his front shirttails and all Tony wants to do is get back on his knees. 

“I’m sorry…” Steve starts, and Tony quirks an eyebrow at him. 

“For what?”

“For…” Steve makes a weak gesture downward, and Tony’s unsure if Steve’s apologizing for coming in his mouth, or just apologizing for coming full stop. “It’s…it’s been kind of a long time for me.”

“Steve…” Tony reaches up and runs a hand through Steve’s hair in what he hopes is a comforting fashion. “That was _without a doubt_ the sexiest thing I have _ever_ experienced.”

Steve smiles a little at that, but the kind of smile that’s grateful but disbelieving.

“Tony.” He ducks his head and Tony just as quickly gets a hand under his chin, makes him look up. 

“Steve.” Tony pats a hand against Steve’s broad chest, and then unknots his tie and starts unbuttoning his shirt. 

With one swift downward motion he tugs Steve’s tie free of his collar, the sound of fabric whipping against fabric making a pleasant swish in the quiet of the living room. Steve reaches up, perhaps thinking to undress him as well, but Tony takes a step back and ducks under Steve’s arms. Steve drops his hands from the door and turns around, going stock-still but for his eyes tracking Tony’s languorous motion as he saunters backward down the long hallway toward the bedroom. 

“We do have all night.” Tony drops the tie carelessly to the floor and starts working on his own. “Please feel free to come over here and try and top it.”

*******

There is a loud clatter, a tumble of metal clanging and rattling. Something that sounds both heavy and ceramic shatters.

Steve bolts upright, automatically reaching for the knife he keeps inside the night table. His hand hits solid wood – no handle, no drawer. This isn’t his furniture; this isn’t his bedroom. 

His stomach is in his throat. His heart is pounding in his ears. Nothing is where it should be. 

With great difficulty, Steve manages to swing around and get his feet flat on the floor, hoping that if he can ground himself, make the room stop spinning, then he can get his mind set straight. Putting his head in his hands, fingers fiercely clutching at his hair, he tries to think. 

_Where am I? Why am I here?_

“Sorry about that, Sleeping Beauty,” someone says as the bedroom door opens. Steve snaps his head up toward the sound, panicked. “I ordered breakfast, but the floor just ate half of it. You’d think I’d be less clumsy – and you’d be right – but apparently this morning my motor functions are impaired. I think maybe you fucked the dexterity right out of me – Steve?” 

It takes far too long for it all to make sense again. By the time it does, Tony is bent down in front of him, hands outstretched but carefully not touching him, like someone trying to approach a skittish animal. 

“Hey, there you are.” Tony’s voice is warm and gentle. He tentatively moves closer. “Can I…?” He stops just before putting a hand on Steve’s bare knee. Unable to get the words out, Steve nods his okay. Tony’s touch is surprisingly soothing, and Steve finds himself twisting his fingers up with Tony’s with a quickness that borders on desperation. 

“Was it the noise?” Tony asks, and Steve wonders how he knows what this is and what may have caused it. But he only wonders for a moment. 

He’d touched and he’d kissed them, but he hadn’t asked about the scars that cover Tony’s chest, the ones that make his skin look like glass someone hit dead center, sending cracks spidering out in every direction. He doesn’t need the full story to guess that Tony has experienced some awful things in his own life. 

He holds Tony’s hand tighter. He’ll be embarrassed about it later, he knows, but he needs it right now. 

“I was having a dream. A nightmare. The…it just woke me up, startled me, I guess. Didn’t know where I was or…” He gestures to the swanky room, to the messy bed, to his own naked body. “Or anything.” 

“You’re in a hotel suite on the 4th floor of the Chateau Marmont in Los Angeles. You’ve been here for one night. It’s 10 in the morning on Saturday, August 6th, 1949.” Steve nods again, everything registering clearly. He begins to relax, his breathing returning to normal. “I’m Tony Stark, millionaire movie producer and arrogant asshole extraordinaire, and you’re naked because we just fucked each other senseless for _hours_. And I do mean _hours_.” 

A sharp laugh escapes him – Steve can’t help it. Leave it to Tony to say something so outrageous at a time like this. The laugh unexpectedly turns into a choked off sob, one emotion shaking another loose. 

“You wanna talk about it?” Tony lifts his other hand to rub Steve’s shoulder. 

Steve gets the sense that maybe he could, that Tony might understand, but he doesn’t want to put that on Tony now. They’ve been together for one illicit, amazing night – he’s registering how his body aches now, and it is a _good_ ache – but it’s still merely one night, singular. Baring his soul seems like too much, too fast. Tony’s asking because he’s kind, but that doesn’t mean he actually wants to take on all this extra burden. 

So Steve shakes his head no, rubbing his eyes and cheeks to dry his tears. He sits up as straight as he can manage and squares his shoulders, then forces a smile to his face. It feels as fake as it surely looks. 

“You said something about breakfast?” His voice is rough and he’s not sure if it’s the usual morning gruffness or something else. Steve brings a hand to the hollow of his throat, remembering how Tony had wrapped his fingers loosely around his neck when he’d been the one flat on his back, Tony thrusting between his legs. It hadn’t been hard enough to choke, just a little extra pressure that heightened every sensation of Tony moving inside him. He’d rather liked it. He hopes Tony left a bruise. 

He drops his hand to his lap as quickly as he tries to drop the thought. He tightens his fading smile and lifts his eyes back up to Tony’s. 

“You’re hungry?” Tony is honestly surprised over Steve’s question. That settles it for Steve right then; if Tony doesn’t have these types of nightmares himself, he’s at the very least been very close with someone who has. 

His appetite is non-existent at the moment. 

“I can always eat,” Steve lies anyway. Tony gives him a long look but doesn’t challenge him on it. He uses his grip on Steve’s leg for leverage as he pushes to stand up. Feeling exposed in the light of day, Steve draws the white sheet over his lap and around his waist. 

“Be right back, stay there a sec,” Tony holds up a finger and then leaves the room quickly. He returns a moment later with one of the hotel’s fluffy white robes in hand. The robe Tony is wearing is maroon and black silk, so he clearly must have brought it from home. 

Now that he’s able to focus more clearly, Steve stops and takes in the rest of Tony for the first time that morning. He’s already combed his dark hair, though it’s still slightly damp and he hasn’t used any pomade to style it into place. Soft strands are curling loose over his forehead. He smells fresh and clean, like luxury soap and expensive cologne, and suddenly Steve feels entirely self-conscious.

Here he is, still dirty from last night’s activities, his mouth dry and awful, and his hair a mess. On top of it all, his face is tear-stained and his eyes surely puffy and bloodshot, his nose probably red. Bucky always told him that being a fair-skinned Irish kid certainly did him no favors when he got all upset. He doesn’t consider himself a vain person, but that doesn’t mean he likes feeling this rough. 

“Maybe I should take a shower first.” Steve suggests weakly as he takes the robe from Tony. He stands, bringing the sheet with him. Tony’s eyes track down his body for a moment and then back up to his face. A telltale flush spreads across Tony’s cheeks, revealing his thoughts to be less than innocent. Tony doesn’t say anything though, evidently aware that now is not the right time. 

“Bathroom is the first left off the hall; you have to go through the dressing room.” 

His answering nod is stiff, and his walk from the room is stilted. Steve’s not quite sure how to do this, this whole…morning after thing. He’s pretty damn positive that waking up shaking from a nightmare isn’t a good way to start off, but from there on he has no idea. Is he supposed to stay for breakfast or was Tony just being polite, counting on him to play his part, to know better than to take the invitation at face value? Should he shower and slip out with a quick good-bye, or should he try and make this last longer? Should he ask Tony if they could see each other again? 

Steve pads across the small dressing room and then into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him with a small sigh. Looking down at the bed sheet he has clutched around his waist, he sheepishly realizes that he must’ve looked ridiculous, waddling through the hotel room with this mass of fabric gathered around his legs. 

He lets the sheet drop to the tile, cool air hitting his naked skin. He pulls aside the shower curtain a bit too sharply, the metal rings screeching against the rod. His nerves haven’t settled yet, clearly.

Everything in the shower is still damp from Tony’s use of it, and Tony’s bath products are lined up along the ledge of the tub. He casts about the small room for complimentary soap and shampoo; it’s not as if he’s ever stayed in a fancy place like this, but he’s heard tell that these types of things come standard. If they did, Tony’s evidently done away with them already. He’ll have to use Tony’s things. 

Steve almost gets into the shower with the water ice cold, used to his and Bucky’s life of relative frugality. He has a foot in the tub before he reconsiders. The thought of the freezing water stinging his skin is unbearable; he wants comfort, not punishment. He could allow himself this, couldn’t he? Compared with the long list of sins he racked up last night, running up the hotel’s heating bill seems a rather small crime. 

When Steve turns from the shower, deciding to wait for the water to warm, he comes face-to-face with his own reflection in the mirror of the medicine cabinet above the sink. What he sees is startling.

He looks _used_. 

His fingers ghost over his mouth. His bottom lip is split, stinging underneath his touch. 

_“Steve, oh god, right there, right there.” Tony tilts his head back over his shoulder and Steve leans to meet him, though they’re both too far gone to do more than breathe against one another’s lips. Tony’s hair is damp with sweat and his eyes are hazy, like he’s too overcome to focus. His fingers clutch desperately at the sheets, at the air, at Steve’s skin._

_He’s stretched out on his right side, width-wise across the bed. Steve had laid him there, and then carefully pressed behind him. Acting on instinct, he’d slid a hand up Tony’s inner thigh, found the soft inside bend of his knee and he’d pushed up, bent back. Tony had been wet and ready and still Steve took his time, nudging in slowly and easing Tony open._

_He’s sliding in so deep now, if he looks down to where they meet…both feeling _and_ seeing the full length of his cock disappearing into Tony’s tight body, the way Tony's hole stretches so obscenely around his girth…the _ sound _of flesh-on-flesh, wet with slick…_

_Tony manages a real kiss just as Steve picks up his pace, like he can make their bodies become one if only he pushes hard enough. Tony’s teeth cut into his lip as he cries out. Thick, messy spurts of come splash over Tony’s chest like Steve is pumping more right out of him with every continued thrust._

Steve's hand leaves his mouth and trails down his neck, tracing the path Tony's lips had traveled again and again.

There are faint marks on both his shoulders and his collarbone. Not deep enough to be bruises, but enough to remember Tony’s hands pressing hard for leverage as he rode him to completion. 

_“Well, we never did eat,” Tony smirks as he pops a red grape into his mouth. Steve feels that twitch of arousal low in his gut as Tony’s lips wrap around it in the shape of a kiss. “You must be famished.”_

_It’s strange how familiar and comfortable this already seems, puttering around the kitchen at three in the morning. The small room is warm and cozy and they’re both barefoot, clad in loose white undershirts and boxers. Tony sits down kiddy-corner from him at the square table and props his feet up on the edge of Steve’s chair. Sandwich fixings are spread out on the white linoleum surface, cold cuts and Wonder bread and bottled condiments. It’s pretty much the exact opposite of the expensive meal they’d ordered and wasted at the club, and Steve likes this so much more._

_And even though they’ve fallen into an easy sort of camaraderie, like two old friends shooting the shit over a late night bite, every moment is on the verge of tipping back over into lust._

_He claps a hand over Tony’s ankle casually when he laughs at a joke, and moments later he’s stroking his fingers slowly and sensually over Tony’s calf._

_He takes a drink from his beer bottle, not thinking anything of it, and as he wipes his lips finds Tony staring at him, eyes wide and dark with unconcealed desire._

_He gently takes a napkin to a bit of mustard clinging to the corner of Tony’s mouth, and then Tony’s lips are against his and Tony’s crawling into his lap._

_Knees on either side of his hips, Tony ruts against him. He tugs Steve’s shirt over his head, tosses aside his own. Steve almost lifts him and tips him back onto the table, mess be damned, when Tony mumbles a different idea against his skin._

_He slides into Tony so easy, this time. They both sigh like it’s a relief to feel the connection again. Tony is gloriously naked, but he’d been in such a hurry that he’d just pulled Steve’s cock through the Y-front of his drawers and mounted him right then and there._

_Hands resting on Steve’s shoulders, Tony lifts himself up and down, up and down, insides tightening around his length with each rise, easing with each fall. They lock eyes and just_ watch _one another fall apart._

_“Tony…” Steve pleads as he veers over the edge, desperate for something_ more _than just_ coming _but too overwhelmed to understand what it is. Tony’s hands clench his shoulders as he spills. Steve follows him not a moment after._

_He buries his head against Tony’s neck afterward, pressing gentle kisses along his collarbone, and Tony’s fingers are soft through his hair._

Steve runs his own hands through his hair now, trying to hold onto the memory a little while longer. 

The mirror is fogging up, and Steve reaches out to wipe it away. His reflection is blurry from the streaks of condensation. The room is muggy with steam and when he breathes, the air feels warm in his lungs. His skin is flushed and he’s starting to sweat, but he thinks that’s as much from his private thoughts as it is from the heat. 

Sighing, Steve steps away from the sink and climbs into the shower. The water is scalding on his skin and even though the pain is bright and sharp, he doesn’t move from the spray. He closes his eyes and ducks his head under the steady stream of water.

_He slowly surfaces from sleep at the feeling of something wet and warm against his skin. He’s so comfortable, and so tired, and someone is stroking a hand down his side, over his hip, and it feels so_ good _, he just presses into it and lets it happen. He vaguely thinks he might still be dreaming._

_Then Tony’s tongue dips into his ear and his hand moves to Steve’s backside._

_“Tony…?” Steve isn’t alarmed, per se, but he’s not fully awake and aware and he thinks he might be misunderstanding Tony’s intent. Tony’s slim finger penetrates him slowly, the sensation strange but not uncomfortable. It’s actually a little exciting, and his body is pushing back instinctively to get Tony’s finger further in even as his mind struggles to catch up to what’s happening._

_“This okay?” Tony murmurs. Steve opens his eyes for just a moment. It must be just before dawn, the light a pale blue-grey outside the window and the birds still quiet. Tony is so warm, wrapped around him, but the sheets are soft and cool. It feels like he’s melted into the bed, melted into Tony, and he doesn’t want that feeling to stop._

_Steve nods and lets his eyes fall closed as Tony leans over his shoulder, tilting Steve’s face toward his for a lingering kiss. When he lets Steve’s mouth go, he presses a line of kisses down his spine, moving further down the bed until he parts Steve’s cheeks with sure, steady fingers and buries his tongue and lips between them._

_He can’t say anything other than Tony’s name, over and over, as Tony licks and sucks and strokes, touching and kissing him where no one ever has before. Before the war there had been men who had wanted to – he was so small and fragile, Steve knew certain men found that appealing – but he’d never worked up the courage for anything more than a furtive, rushed hand or blow job. During the war, there’d been Peggy. After the war, after their relationship had crashed and burned, the men who wanted him looked at his muscles and his size and they wanted to be fucked._

_He had thought Tony was the same._

_But he comes in Tony’s mouth, and as his body relaxes in the afterglow of his orgasm, Tony eases him onto his back and pushes the head of his cock inside. Just the tip, over and over, again and again; eventually Steve’s the one begging Tony to do it, to thrust all the way in and pound him into the mattress._

_He does._

Steve reaches back and gingerly touches himself there; he’s feeling a little tender, but it’s not unpleasant. 

His cock is fully hard now, and he closes his other hand around it and gives it a shaky stroke. 

The wartime remembrances of his nightmares have been pushed out by the sensual memories of last night, but he’s still teetering off-balance. He’s simultaneously unsettled and undone, something dark digging at his mind even as arousal is racing through his veins.

The water is washing away the evidence Tony left on his skin; Steve grabs the soap and scrubs away the rest of the flaky streaks of come on his stomach, and where it had leaked from inside his body and dried on his inner thighs. Doing this only makes him harder, and by the time he’s washed his hair with the shampoo that smells like Tony, he’s on the verge of coming again. 

He sucks in a deep breath, considering doing it, just bringing himself off quick and dirty all over the tile, when the bathroom door opens, bringing with it a rush of cool air that flutters the shower curtain. 

Steve freezes, knowing that the outline of his body must be perfectly visible through the nearly sheer fabric. 

“I just…you’ve been in here for over half an hour. Just wanted to make sure you were okay.” Tony doesn’t sound concerned now, though. Even over the sound of the water and the bathroom exhaust fan, Steve can hear desire trebling his voice. 

Steve pulls the shower curtain back slowly. He knows what he must look like; Tony had probably come in half-expecting to find him curled in a ball, a sobbing mess on the floor, and instead he’s standing here solidly, dripping wet and fully hard. 

Tony looks at him hungrily, and Steve’s sure that same hunger is mirrored in his own expression. 

“Steve, I…” Tony drifts off before finishing the thought, eyes roving over his body before settling back on his face. Other than that, Tony doesn’t move a muscle. For a moment, Steve wonders why Tony’s hesitating when it’s so painfully obvious that Steve’s ready and willing. 

Then it occurs to him that Tony’s waiting for him to signal it's okay. 

Steve reaches out and turns off the water. He doesn’t break with Tony’s gaze as he steps out of the tub. The tile slicks under his feet, water dripping from his hair, down his arms and legs. He steps forward carefully, slowly, until Tony’s only inches away.

Tony tilts his face up to look at him as he moves in to wrap his fingers around Tony’s collar. His wet hands dampen the deep red silk of Tony’s robe as he tugs it open; his palms warm Tony’s cool skin as he skims his hands down Tony’s sides to settle on his hips. 

Evidently that’s enough consent for Tony. His robe slips off his shoulders as he keens into Steve’s touch, pressing forward so the length of his body is fully against Steve’s. Steve sinks into their kiss. 

His hands tighten on Tony’s hips, fingers digging in to the cut of muscle, the curve of his ass. He backs Tony against the sink without really thinking about it, just wanting something hard and stable to press Tony against. 

Tony gasps at the feel of cold porcelain against his naked skin, and they both laugh into each other’s mouths, surprised and breathlessly light. Tony’s hands grope his backside, urging him closer to rut their cocks together. Their laughter fades away into the steam as Steve reclaims Tony’s lips. 

“Fuck me,” Tony whispers, breaking from him to turn around and bend over the sink. “Fuck me so I feel it for days, Steve. I want to think about you every damn time I move.”

“Tony, fuck,” Steve moans, burying his face against Tony’s neck. “God.”

His cock is already sliding between Tony’s cheeks just from the position Tony’s put them in. His tip catches the rim of Tony’s hole, slipping inside just a little. It’s an easy move; Tony is slick and open. 

“Tony, you’re…” Steve starts, a bit surprised that Tony is already prepared for this, like he’d expected it despite coming into the bathroom under the pretense of concern. He’s not sure he really cares about the presumption. 

“Might have gotten a little excited during my shower too,” Tony admits, rolling his hips backward to urge Steve on. He guides one of Steve’s hands to his groin. “Considering that was less than an hour ago, take _this_ as the compliment it is.”

“I’m hard for you too,” Steve rocks against Tony, pre-come dripping to Tony’s lower back. Tony sighs like it’s the best thing he’s ever felt. “So fucking hard, Tony.”

“I came with four fingers in my ass, thinking about you. It was a poor substitute for the real thing.” 

Steve wraps a hand around the base of his cock and presses himself to Tony’s entrance. He stops there, with just the head inside. 

“God, yeah, put it in,” Tony demands. “Wanna feel all of you.”

Steve pushes all the way with one smooth movement, bottoming out with his hips flush to Tony’s backside. He groans at the tight, wet heat enveloping his length so easily. 

Tony moans as well, head dropping down between his shoulders, one arm snapping out to steady himself with a hand against the mirror. His fingers scramble for purchase, streaking the lower part of the mirror clean of steam. 

Tony lifts his head as Steve sets a steady pace, each thrust long and sinking deep. 

“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” Tony whispers as they lock eyes in the mirror. Steve can see how much he means it, and all Steve can think is that he actually _feels_ beautiful. Tony makes him feel _perfect._

Condensation quickly obscures their reflections, however, and Steve wants to see him, wants Tony face-to-face. He pulls out and spins Tony around, lifts him up onto the edge of the sink. 

This new position is tenuous; Steve has to support most of Tony’s weight in order to get him at the right angle to slide back inside. Tony’s left hand finds the towel rack on the wall; the other clutches the curved edge of the sink. He wraps his legs high around Steve’s back as they clamber for each other again. 

They kiss like they need each other to breathe, and Steve fucks him like he’s trying to split Tony apart. Tony is crying out, high and breathy, and his grip is tight enough to turn his knuckles white. Steve would worry about hurting him if Tony weren’t begging for more whenever he pauses to gasp for air. 

Steve breaks their kiss to again bury his face against Tony’s neck, surprising himself by biting the juncture of his shoulder when Tony clenches tight around his cock. Tony’s whole body violently seizes up at the sensation of Steve’s teeth breaking his skin; he comes untouched, throwing his head back against the mirror hard enough to shatter the glass. Steve’s helpless against the force of Tony’s orgasm, Tony’s body milking him for all he’s got. 

He loses touch with reality for a moment. The world goes foggy and dim. When he comes back to himself, he realizes that in the heat of the moment, he’d wrapped his right hand around Tony’s atop the towel rack. 

The metal bar hangs from the wall now, torn loose at one end and the plaster crumbling. Dazed, he manages to keep Tony from teetering while getting his left hand to the back of Tony’s head. He’d broken the mirror, yes, but despite splintering out from the point of impact, the whole thing had stayed together. No shards have come loose to catch in Tony’s hair or cut his scalp, though he might have a bit of a bump there tomorrow just from hitting his skull so hard. Steve runs his fingers over the spot gently and tips Tony’s face up toward his. 

Despite his orgasm, he’s still hard inside Tony, and he pushes his hips in small, tentative thrusts as he and Tony kiss. He whimpers and Tony curses breathlessly. He’s oversensitive and he knows Tony must be too, but he doesn’t want the feeling to end. He chases after the last currents of pleasure as they ebb away. 

They sigh together when Steve finally lets himself slip out. 

“You really do surprise me, Steve Rogers,” Tony says quietly as he rests their foreheads together. Steve’s unsure what he means by that, but before he can ask Tony to explain, the sink shifts underneath Tony’s weight. It tilts forward and to the right with a crack of porcelain and the creak of metal. Steve catches Tony to stop him slipping to the floor and steadies him on two feet. 

Tony eyes the damage, hand going to the back of his head where Steve had just been checking for injury. 

“Well. That’s a first,” Tony comments, amused. The mood has broken, shifting away from whatever intense intimacy they’d just fallen into. “Guess we should be lucky we didn’t break the pipes.”

Tony glances at him and must mistake something on his face for dismay, when really, it’s that he’s catching up. What just happened between them almost feels like an out of body experience. 

“Don’t worry, I can cover the damages. Well worth every penny,” Tony grins. He grabs one of the towels that’s barely clinging to the broken rack and turns on the faucet. The pipes let out a distressed croak, but enough water comes out to moisten the fabric. 

Steve stands there stupidly as Tony casually cleans them both off, first Steve’s cock and then between his own legs. He tosses the towel to the ground with Steve’s forgotten bed sheet when he’s done, and then reaches for Steve again. 

“You _really_ need to say yes to my offer, Steve.” Tony is caressing his chest and stomach and it takes a moment for Steve to process the abrupt change in topic.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“The movie. You should take it.”

“Tony…” Steve sighs, but Tony shakes his head. He slides one arm around Steve’s neck, and brings his other hand to Steve’s mouth. He presses three fingers softly over his lips, hushing him. 

“I’m being serious – just think of it – the two of us on set, every day for weeks?” The corner of Tony’s mouth curls up in a delighted smirk. 

“Tony, that's not being serious. This is your first film. You can’t cast me in the lead role simply because of _this_.” Steve gestures between their bodies, not quite able to say aloud that Tony wants him around simply because they’ve had unbelievably fantastic sex. 

And while he hasn’t known Tony long, he highly doubts that this is what Tony will want when the shine has worn off and his head has cleared. Any Stark is too good a businessman to let the bedroom interfere with the boardroom. No one at Tony’s company would be happy with a movie serial has-been in a starring role for a major motion picture. 

“This is too big a deal for you, and for Stark Pictures. And I know you know that, so why –?”

“I’m not just thinking with my cock, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Tony’s smirk grows wider. “I thought you would be perfect for the role the second we met, long before we fell into bed.”

Steve arches an eyebrow at the phrasing and Tony catches on to his meaning.

“Ok, I realize that half an hour at dinner isn’t exactly ‘long before,’ but still.” Tony chuckles, but Steve doesn't echo him. Tony squeezes a little at his waist, a gesture that Steve thinks is meant to be reassuring. “Come on, Steve. I _am_ being serious. Accept my offer? I’d like to see you again.” 

“Is my seeing you dependent on my taking this part?” Steve asks, doubt growing even more insistent. He pulls back a little, and Tony stares up at him like he’s considering. 

“No, that's not what I meant…” Tony’s brow furrows, like it’s just now registering how that might have sounded. “But I’m going to be insanely busy getting this thing off the ground – if you were on set everyday, wouldn’t that make ‘my seeing you’ so much easier?” 

Tony bites his bottom lip and runs a finger teasingly down the center of Steve’s bare chest, dipping slowly lower and lower. Steve’s too anxious now to find this anything but cloying.

“We’d have ironclad excuses to be around each other. No one would suspect a thing.” 

Steve tries to stop him there, grabbing Tony’s wandering hand before starting to speak, but Tony evidently has more points to make. 

“And besides, Steve, this film would be good for you. You could make some real money, instead of that pittance you make in the set department, and you’ll get some valuable exposure.”

“Feeling exposed enough, thanks,” Steve mumbles, drawing back. 

“I don’t get it – what is it that you’re you scared of? It’s not just about someone finding out you like my dick, I know that much.” Despite himself, Steve’s cheeks flush at Tony’s crude attitude. “You were against this whole idea before we ever slept together.” 

Steve exhales a long, slow breath, not knowing how to explain it. Tony’s lived his whole life in the spotlight – he’s never known anything else – and he’ll probably never understand how uncomfortable Steve feels about the pursuit of fame. He holds Tony carefully away from himself for a long moment, and then opens the bathroom door. He heads back to the bedroom, Tony trailing behind him. 

As Steve starts to collect his clothes, scattered all over the room from the night before, Tony leans idly in the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest. 

“You know, people usually sleep with the producer because they _want_ the job, not because they don’t,” Tony remarks with a casual air. Steve pauses in searching for his shirt, lifting his head to look at Tony to see if he’s serious or joking. But Tony is looking down, indifferently inspecting his manicured nails. 

Steve ignores the comment and pulls on his underwear and pants. He finds his dress shirt in a crumpled heap halfway underneath the bed. He tries to shake out some of the wrinkles, but it’s hopeless. He looks a frightful mess; Bucky is going to have so many questions when he walks in like this, and Steve doesn’t know how he’s going to explain.

Tony is standing there naked, so Steve tosses him his underwear when he comes across it on the floor. Tony catches the ball of fabric easily, then lets the boxers unfurl as he hangs them off one finger. 

“There’s still breakfast,” Tony comments, nodding his head back over his shoulder down the hallway toward the kitchen. 

“I should go...Bucky – my roommate – he’s probably worried about me. I don’t usually stay out all night.” Steve finishes buttoning up his shirt and glances at Tony. Tony shrugs, and his nonchalance causes Steve to hesitate. It’s not like he wanted Tony to beg him to stay, but maybe he’d hoped the man would at least want him to.

“You have to go, you have to go.” Tony drops his underwear back to the ground and backs out of the doorway. He disappears into the dressing room.

Steve follows him out of the bedroom, stopping just outside the doorway to the dressing room. Tony pulls a clean pair of boxers from the dresser and slips them on, snapping the elastic at his waist. 

“Okay. Well.” Steve isn’t sure what to say, and Tony isn’t helping. He seems preoccupied with dressing, pulling a fresh shirt from one rack before crossing to grab a tie from another. It’s jarring to feel such distance from someone who he’d been so completely lost in just minutes ago. Tony might as well be a stranger, for how connected Steve feels now. 

With his socks, shoes and suit coat gathered in his arms, Steve leaves Tony in the dressing room and makes the long walk down the narrow hallway toward the living room. He sits down on one of the armchairs and puts on his socks and shoes slowly, wondering if Tony is going to come back out and speak with him, maybe say good-bye, before he goes. 

The light from the dressing room spills out into the dim hallway and Steve can see Tony’s shadow as he moves about inside, can hear him puttering around. It quickly becomes clear that Tony is not about to join him. 

Heaving a heavy sigh, Steve pushes himself back to his feet and slips on his suit coat. With one last long look down the hall, he lets himself out.

*******

Tony closes the side doors for the landing gear with an angry bang.

“Christ, Tony, be gentle with my girl.” Rhodey pats _Iron Patriot_ ’s nose, frowning. Tony rolls his eyes at his best friend as he ducks out from underneath the plane, wiping his greasy hands on a rag. 

“My girl, you mean.” Tony shoves the cloth in the back pocket of his denims, the tattered fabric too dirty to help much. There’s still oil smeared black on his thumb. He starts to reach out and wipe it on the sleeve of Rhodey’s leather bomber jacket, but Rhodey knows him too well, backing away quickly. Tony winds up wiping it clean on the front of the already worn white tank underneath his own unbuttoned bowling shirt. “And you’re the one who wrecked her, Rhodes, so maybe you shouldn’t be lecturing _me_ here.” 

“I don’t think a broken landing gear constitutes _wrecked_ , Tony. Don’t be so overdramatic.” Rhodey has the audacity to laugh, which only irks him further. In theory, he knows his friend doesn’t damage the plane on purpose – would in fact do almost anything to avoid it – but he’s so torqued up after this morning that everything is setting him on edge. 

“You scraped up her whole underside.” Tony bends to run a hand over the damage. He can feel the deep scratches and dents rough and ragged beneath his fingertips. “Look at this mess.” Rhodey clucks his tongue at him. 

“You’re the one who designed her, I’m only the pilot. A faulty landing mechanism would be all on you.”

“I designed her, yes – _three years ago_.” God, had she been a beaut, all shined up in red, white and blue, so perfectly balanced and streamlined for Rhodey’s complicated aerobatics. His modifications to the Boeing Stearman 75 had made the _Iron Patriot_ the absolute best stunt plane in the business. The constant speed propeller alone had changed the whole game, and that had only been the first of Tony’s advancements. 

She’s battered to hell now, the paint job chipped and fading. “Maintenance is your responsibility. When’s the last time you brought this old gal around?”

“If you want to see me more often, buddy, all you gotta do is ask. I miss you too.” Rhodey claps a hand to Tony’s shoulder as they duck under the wing and walk toward the front of the plane. 

“I see your ugly mug more than enough, thanks,” Tony replies, elbowing Rhodey in the ribs. 

“When are you going to let me see the improvements you’ve made to your own little project?” Rhodey asks, pointing to the hangar across the way. Its doors are firmly locked and they’ve been that way for quite some time. Tony follows Rhodey’s gesture but just as quickly looks away. His lips pull into a tight line. 

“You know the _Iron Man_ is just for me, _Colonel._ I wasn’t about to give the designs to the Germans, and I’m not about to give them to the U.S. government either.” He’s not sure who he’d trust less with his advanced weaponry. 

“Relax, Tony. I’m retired; I’m not some agent looking to steal your secrets.” Rhodey puts his hands up in surrender, his eyes exaggeratedly pleading. Tony scowls and Rhodey frowns back. “You really are in a _wonderful_ mood this morning. What’s got you all in a twist?”

“Nothing.” Tony mutters, picking up a wrench from his toolbox and feeling the heavy weight of it in his hand for a moment before going back to the plane and ducking under to get at the landing gear. He’s already fixed what needs fixing, but pretending to be busy seems like the better option than facing his friend. 

“Nothing,” Rhodey repeats, bending to look at him, his tone slightly mocking. “You might want to tell that to the bolt you’re abusing.” 

Tony pauses, frowning, and abandons the landing gear once more. He leaves Rhodey and walks toward the nose, switching his focus to the engine. He’d dropped in his own version of a Wasp Jr., something Pratt & Whitney had tried to bother him about once upon a time. Since he’d built the engine with his own two hands without seeing nary a blueprint from P&W, and his own alterations made it so distinct, they really hadn’t a leg to stand on. The fact he only used the engine for Rhodey’s plane and his own, instead of marketing it to the public, meant their complaints eventually went away of their own volition. 

The engine actually looks great; at least Rhodey’s been doing something right. 

Rhodey sighs. He leans against the plane just below the cockpit and stares at his friend’s profile, just waiting for the dam to break. 

“ _Tony_. Come on. This is me you’re talking to, remember?”

Tony shoots him a look, then gives a heavy sigh of his own. He moves away from the engine and his shoulders slump. 

“It’s just trouble with this person I’m seeing. Was seeing. Saw once. I don’t know.”

“Does this _person_ have a name?” Rhodey asks, catching on the carefully chosen word. Tony glances over his shoulder, surveying the hangar. Their voices will travel and echo. “Tones, we’re the only ones here. And you know I’m not going to judge.”

“You might. If you knew who it was.”

“Now I’m just intrigued.” Rhodey folds his arms over his chest and makes a _gimme_ gesture with his right hand. Tony makes a face at him, still reluctant. “You know it’s gonna come down to talkin’ to either me or Pepper – you really want to discuss this, whatever this is, with her?”

“Ugh.” Tony has to admit the man has a point. “Okay, fine. I…” He scratches the back of his head with one hand, the other making a so-so gesture as he fumbles his way to the heart of the matter. “I kinda, maybe, might have had sex with Steve Rogers last night.”

“What?”

“And it might have been more than once. Multiple times.”

“Steve Rogers?”

“And not just last night. This morning too. Right before I came to meet you, actually.”

“This is Steve Rogers as in _Captain America_ Steve Rogers who worked for your father.” Rhodey’s eyebrows are somewhere up along his hairline. 

“No. I mean, yes, but to say he worked for my father isn’t really accurate.” Rhodey starts to cut in, not about to debate the finer points of the matter when there are clearly a lot of bigger things to discuss. Tony stalls. “Accuracy is important, I’m a scientist, you know this.”

“Technically, you’re an engineer,” he counters, pointing at him.

Tony waves him off. 

“A person can be more than one thing. Furthermore, the problem here isn’t my daddy issues. I’m well acquainted with those, Pepper and I have already had this talk regarding Steve.”

“So you _did_ tell Pepper about this?” 

“About Steve Rogers' existence in relation to my existence? Yes, she’s aware. Does she know that Steve and I literally destroyed a bathroom in the Chateau this morning with our out-of-this-world fucking? No, she doesn't know about that.” 

“ _Tony…_ ” Rhodey groans, turning and resting his forehead against the plane. 

“We broke the sink _and_ the wall.” Tony says, watching Rhodey squirm. He may be in a wretched mood, but he’s not above torturing his best friend with more details than he ever did and ever would ask for. Rhodey had been the one to pressure him to talk about this, so it really is his just desserts.

Rhodey thuds his head against the metal a couple of times before rolling to look back at Tony. “I should really _not_ be shocked when you make horrible decisions. I should be used to this by now. But somehow, you still manage to surprise me.”

“You wouldn’t be surprised if you saw him. Even a straight arrow like you might bend.”

To his credit, Rhodey doesn’t put up an argument; he just arches an eyebrow.

“Ok, so if it’s not your father that’s the problem, and the guy is apparently some kind of Adonis –”

“Adonis would look at him with envy.” Tony interjects, the correction important to make. 

“Sure. Fine. He’s a damn god. Apart from the obvious reason that he’s a _guy_ and that makes this hard – _difficult_ , don’t _even_ , Tony –” Rhodey lifts a finger to sharply shut him up, the lewd joke dying in Tony’s throat. “What’s got you so pissed off and unhappy that you gotta take it out on my baby here?” 

Rhodey pats the plane like it’s a good dog. 

“I…” Tony hedges, slightly ashamed as he thinks back on this morning’s conversation. “I may have been a little too… _me_ about the whole thing.”

His friend doesn’t seem at all confused by the vague statement, which might bother Tony just a bit. 

“Don’t seem so shocked,” Tony sarcastically snipes. He turns from the plane, getting a few paces away before turning back and pointing at Rhodey accusatorily. “It could have been something _he_ did, you shouldn’t assume it was my fault.”

“ _Sure._ ”

“I’m sorry, of the two of us here, which one has been in love with Danvers since ’44 and hasn’t done a damn thing about it?” 

“Ah, ah, ah, Stark. Don’t go bringing Carol into this to get it all off track.”

“I mean, you keep saying it won’t work ’cause of the whole race thing, but come on – she was a damned WASP, you really think she’d back down from the challenge? Pretty sure she’d tell society at large to screw off if only you asked her to.” 

“We’re not discussing me, we’re discussing you,” Rhodey sing-songs tiredly. 

“I’m merely presenting strong evidence that _you_ are not fit to give _me_ relationship advice.” Tony sits down on a packing crate and leans back lazily, looking up at Rhodey with a triumphant smirk. 

Rhodey smirks back at him, causing Tony’s mouth to slip downward to a frown.

“You are being ridiculously defensive.”

“I’ve been ridiculous and I’ve been defensive on separate occasions, but never both at the same time. I feel this is an accomplishment,” Tony jokes sardonically, tilting his chin up slightly as if he’s proud. 

“You _really_ like this guy.”

“So.” The word trips petulantly off his tongue. 

“ _So_ , just go undo whatever it is you did.” The question is implied, and Tony decides he should probably just confess the entire mess. It may feel better to acknowledge it aloud. 

“I…I may have tried to pressure him into taking a job on my film, which he clearly did not want to take,” Tony winces, remembering the increasingly disheartened look on Steve’s face when he’d kept on about it. They’d barely finished making love before Tony had to stupidly open his big mouth and press the issue. 

“That’s a little obnoxious, but not exactly awful. Maybe he’ll give you another chance.”

“And then I might have frozen him out when he turned me down.” 

He’d stayed in the dressing room until he was sure Steve had gone. Afterward, he sat and stared at the empty bed with its rumpled sheets for a good long while, the silence of the hotel room oppressive with its loneliness. 

“Or maybe he won’t,” Rhodey shakes his head. “Christ, you can be an asshole.”

“ _Thanks_ , that’s helpful.” Tony snaps, but Rhodey laughs. He takes a seat next to Tony on the wooden crate, slapping a hand over his knee. 

“In all seriousness, Tones – just say you’re sorry.”

“Because it’s that easy,” Tony snorts, rolling his eyes.

“It’s simple, not easy,” Rhodey corrects. “Track him down and do it before you let it go too long.” He pats Tony’s knee twice more before standing up. “Make it right – you know that I’ve always wanted to meet Captain America.”

“Wouldn’t want to mess that up for you,” Tony grunts. Rhodey puts a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“I also want my friend to be happy.” 

“Yeah…well…thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Now can you get back to fixing my girl without acting like a sullen child?”

“So that moment’s over?”

“Yeah. Moment’s over.”

*******

“You have _got_ to be kidding me.”

“Keep it down, James. You know this isn’t like him. Maybe he’s sick.”

Steve stirs to the sound of hushed voices just outside his doorway. He lifts his head from his pillow, blinking enough sleep from his eyes to notice that the door he’d firmly closed before falling into bed is now ajar. He glances at the clock on his nightstand, and realizes he's been asleep for going on three hours.

“The thought never crossed my mind.” Bucky lowers his voice to a tight hiss that slowly climbs back up to full volume as he continues on. “Really, Nat, that never occurred to me. I’m just the one who spent his entire childhood perpetually terrified that every little cough, every damned fever, would be the death of him. It’s not like I was up at 3 a.m. calling every hospital in the city or anything.”

“Don’t take your shit out on me, Barnes.” Natasha snaps back, her voice moving further away from the bedroom. “Just wake him up if you’re so damn worried. I’m going to go call Sam and let him know Steve’s been found.”

Steve thuds face first back into his pillow, his groan muffled against the fabric. When he’d come home to an empty apartment this morning, he should never have assumed Bucky to be out and about in his usual Saturday routine. From Bucky’s tone, it sounds like he’s going to get a tongue lashing the likes of which he hasn’t heard since before his mother passed years ago. 

He pushes himself back up to sit.

“Buck.” Steve calls out softly, and his door is immediately thrown all the way open. Bucky is livid, his cheeks ashen and his pupils so constricted that his eyes seem only a pale, icy blue. 

When Steve gets angry, he stews and he broods. When he lets that anger loose, he puffs up, body raring for a fight and his tongue turning unexpectedly sharp. Someone once told Steve that his anger makes other people feel badly, shrinking under the weight of his disappointment.

When Bucky gets angry – _really_ angry – he pulls himself in, winding tight and going dangerously quiet. Bucky doesn’t make people feel badly. He makes them scared.

Bucky advances on the bed, good hand curled in a tight fist by his side. Bucky has never hit him, but it’s nonetheless clear in this moment that Bucky is holding himself back. 

“You better have a _damn_ good explanation, Rogers.” His voice is cold and hard, his mouth set in a thin, unforgiving frown. 

“Bucky, I’m sorry. I –” Steve trips over the words. He’d had a perfectly sound alibi lined up, something he’d practiced inside his head on the walk home, but when he'd arrived near on noon and Bucky hadn’t been there to greet him, he’d let it slip from his mind. Out-and-out lying has never come naturally to him.

Bucky stares at him, jaw ticking impatiently. 

“I was with Tony Stark,” Steve admits, and just for a moment considers letting that lay there between them for Bucky to interpret as he may. The panic quickly surges through him, however, and he stammers forward with more information. “He wanted to talk business over dinner. Dinner turned into drinks and before I knew it, it was really late – too late – and I thought it best to take a room at the hotel rather than stumble home drunk. I didn’t want to wake you.”

Bucky lifts one eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest. His fingers flex and unflex against the metal and plastic of his prosthetic, evidently itching for a fight. 

“I didn’t think you’d be so worried. I’m really sorry, Buck, I should’ve thought –”

“Yes, you should have thought. I’ve been out all morning looking for you, you know that? I called all our friends, your crew – hell, I even called Pegs.”

“I just…I got swept up.” It’s not a lie. 

“You haven’t _not_ come home once in the two years since you and Peggy split. I thought you were dead in a ditch somewhere, not out _carousing_ with Tony fucking Stark.”

Steve moves to sit on the edge of the bed, looking up at his best friend through the shag of his bed-mussed hair. He pushes the wayward strands off his forehead. He’s still dressed in last night’s clothes, rumpled and unkempt. 

He wishes he could tell Bucky the truth about where he’d been and what he’d done. He wishes he could tell him how dizzy in love he’d felt last night, and how desolate and heartbroken he’d felt this morning when he’d left that hotel room. 

But he can’t.

His distress must show itself plainly on his face, because something in Bucky’s stance relents, his own expression softening. He sits down next to Steve on the bed, mattress springs squeaking.

“Look. I didn’t mean to overreact." He rubs his fingers against his stubbled cheek. He must not have bothered to shave, what with searching for Steve's whereabouts. "But this isn’t something you _do_ , Steve.”

“I know.”

“I honestly thought it more likely that you had gotten in an accident or a fight or, god knows, been rushed to the hospital with some illness like you used to before, than that you’d been partying all night with some rich playboy.”

There’s such disdain for Tony in Bucky’s voice. Even after Tony’s treatment of him this morning, it pains Steve to hear it. He picks at the bedspread, not trusting himself to speak.

“I always thought you were too god damned stubborn to _be_ influenced, but Stark is clearly bad all over for you, Rogers.”

“It’s not his fault.” Steve lifts his head, snapping a fierce look at Bucky.

“You didn’t even tell me you had a meeting with him. Since when do you keep secrets?” Bucky runs his hand through his hair, clearly exasperated. Steve's getting there himself.

“Christ, Buck,” Steve sighs, despite knowing it's in his best interest to keep quiet and let this all blow over. “I’m an adult. I don’t need a lecture.” Steve closes his eyes, wishing the words back into his mouth. He turns to face Bucky and meets his unimpressed glare.

"Evidently you do."

“I appreciate your concern, and I’m sorrier than I can say that I didn’t call, but one night out doesn’t mean I’m suddenly a different person.”

Bucky purses his lips, his gaze still judgmental. He doesn’t say anything to dispel the tension, instead waiting for Steve to continue.

"You're always saying I need to relax and have fun - now I do, and you're acting like I've killed someone."

"That's _not_ \- Geez, Steve. There's a difference between going out with your pals and painting the town red with that spoiled idiot. You'll be plastered all over the gossip rags like he is if you're not careful."

“Well you can rest easy. I’m never going to see Tony Stark again.” Steve rises from the bed and crosses to the closet, pulling his button-down and undershirt over his head as he goes. He suddenly needs to be free of everything from the night before.

“Thank god,” Bucky grunts. Annoyed, Steve tosses his discarded clothes at Bucky’s head, who swats them down to his lap with a disgusted grunt.

“Forget I said that. Just...what happened.” Bucky asks flatly, since Steve's disgruntled tone made it so obvious that something did. “And why the hell do your clothes smell like coconut.”

“It’s…it’s the hotel soap. I took a shower, I…I stank of booze and cigarettes.” Steve replies haltingly, caught off guard by the question. “And nothing _happened_. He’s not the type of person I can see myself spending time with, is all.” 

“And you realized this in the midst of your all-night bacchanal?” 

“You’re making it sound so tawdry.” Steve turns from where he’s digging through his chest of drawers for a clean undershirt. 

“I’m not making it _sound_ like anything, Stevie. You’re the one who ‘stank of booze and cigarettes’ and showed up here with hickeys all over on your neck and bruises on your hips.” Bucky gestures up and down Steve’s body with a pointed finger and Steve colors, glancing down at his waist and throwing a hand up to cover the side of his neck. For a moment, he thinks he’s been caught out, that Bucky _must_ realize the truth of the matter now, but his worry is for naught. “You at least going to see the girl again?”

“It wasn’t…it wasn’t like what you’re thinking.” 

“Well now I’m _thinking_ that he paid for company and he shared the wealth.” Steve is at a loss for how to sidestep that one. Bucky exhales, long and slow. “This is where I'm gonna reiterate that Tony Stark's a horrible influence. _This_ –” Bucky gestures toward Steve’s body yet again. “– ain’t you either. Random women, Steve?”

“It’s not like you’ve never done it.” Steve mutters, the double standard rubbing him the wrong way even when he knows Bucky’s exactly right. He’d never pay a dame for a night; that’s never been a thing he considered honorable for a man to do. 

“Well, you’re not me. You're supposed to be better than me." Bucky's words are harsh with disappointment.

"That's not fair."

"Because life is fair?"

“He offered me a job.” Steve abruptly directs the conversation away from who he did or did not sleep with. It's awful and downright yellow-bellied that he'd rather have Bucky believe he went to a prostitute than have Bucky know the truth. But he can't bring himself to say that he had sex with a man, much less a man that he is - or was - genuinely interested in. He's too weak to even consider dealing with the fallout that would cause in their friendship.

“Stark. A job?”

“Wants me to star in his new picture, if you can believe that malarkey.”

He purposely acts nonchalant about it, treating it like an outlandish joke, even as doubt niggles the back of his mind. Maybe he _is_ a coward for turning it down – too afraid of going back, too afraid of life in the spotlight, and maybe too afraid to wrap his future so closely up with Tony’s, when all is said and done. 

“You’re right, I don’t believe it. You said no, right?”

“Of course I said no. I told you, Buck – I don’t plan on seeing him again.” 

There’s a knock at the open doorway, and they both turn to find Natasha standing there, amused. She looks pointedly at Steve in his state of half-undress and then at Bucky, still holding Steve’s clothes in his hand. 

“Make yourselves presentable, boys, we’ve got company.” She smirks before stepping aside. Tony Stark is standing just behind her, looking gorgeous and confused. He glances back and forth between the two men in the bedroom with none of Natasha’s self-satisfied glee. 

Natasha turns on her heel and walks down the hall toward the kitchen. 

“You were saying something about plans, Steve?” Bucky mutters, tossing the wad of shirts to the floor at his feet. He pushes up from the bed and stalks out, bumping Tony’s shoulder as he goes. Tony tries and fails to conceal a wince. 

“Bucky?” Tony guesses, and Steve nods. “Charming.” 

Tony straightens his tie, now a pale blue instead of the bright red he’d grabbed this morning when Steve had awkwardly watched him begin to dress. His whole outfit has changed, and Steve can see smudges of oil and dirt that weren’t there before staining the sides of his fingers. 

Belatedly remembering himself, Steve hurriedly pulls a clean white tank over his head and tugs it down to his waist. He grabs the first shirt finds in the closet, a lightweight blue plaid, and slips it over his shoulders. He’s starting to button it up when Tony catches his attention. 

"You never said you lived across the street from Jan." Steve's put off by the non-sequitur. "Janet Van Dyne?" Tony gestures over his shoulder in the general direction of the apartments across the street. "Saw her leaving when I arrived."

"She doesn't actually live there." Steve mumbles, wondering why Tony's shown up unannounced and is talking about the neighborhood, of all things.

"Yeah...that Hank's a piece of work. I should catch up, we're old pals, she and I."

"By all means, go and visit _her_." Steve throws Tony a look as he settles his collar straight. "She might actually want to see you." Tony rubs his beard, tilting his head and smiling wryly.

"I guess I deserved that." He admits, and somehow that makes Steve regret saying it. "That's why I'm here. Can we..." He looks over his shoulder toward the kitchen, getting a bead on where Bucky and Natasha went off to. “Can we talk?” Tony is already stepping inside, closing the door behind him.

“I suppose,” Steve replies warily, looking past Tony to the door as it clicks shut. 

“Sorry, I just…” Tony seems to realize he’d taken liberties and moves to open the door again. Steve steps to Tony’s side and puts his hand against the door, leaving it closed. 

He’s in Tony’s space – or Tony’s in his – and all he’d need to do is lean in and they’d be kissing. Tony’s gaze dips to his mouth, then back up to meet his stare. Steve’s surprised by the desirous look in those beautiful brown eyes, startled by how positively electric the connection between them still is, despite Tony’s earlier cold shoulder. 

“Look…” Tony starts, but is apparently too distracted by their nearness to continue. He shakes his head and takes a step back. “Look.” He says more firmly, but still fails to follow it up. 

“Yes?” Steve steels himself against the urge to touch. He's angry, and he _should_ be angry. He shouldn't be thinking about how Tony would feel pressed up against him, or how he would taste.

“Can we…I can’t do this in here.” Tony glances toward the bed. “Your friends are probably outside listening and I have things I need to say –” He lowers his voice to a near whisper and closes the space between them again. “ – and all I can think about is spreading you over that mattress and kissing my way up your body.”

“Where do you want to go?” Steve hears himself ask, frankly impressed with how unaffected he manages to sound. Inside, he’s in tumult, emotions pulling him in one direction and then the other just as fast. 

“Let’s go for a drive.” Tony pulls a set of keys from his pocket, pressing them to Steve’s palm. “You decide where.”

“I…” Steve looks down at the keys, at a loss.

“Anywhere you want.” Tony reaches and tucks a finger under Steve’s chin, gently tapping and tilting Steve’s face upward. “Anywhere.”

Steve nods.

******

Tony studies Steve’s profile.

His blue eyes are narrowed against the bright reflection off the ocean, his pale cheeks warming pink in the afternoon sun. The wind gently caresses his blonde hair, strands kissing his forehead. 

Tony found Steve breathtaking since the moment they’d met, so it’s no shock that something lustful stirs deep inside of him as he looks. But something else tugs at him, something deeper that makes him wonder if it’s possible to fall in love this fast.

He’s not in love, he decides quickly. He acts the cynical bastard, but he’s a bit of a hopeless romantic at heart. It can get the better of him sometimes when he’s not careful. 

He doesn’t know Steve well enough to be in love. The very idea of it is ludicrous, irrational. 

But staring at the set of Steve’s sharp jaw and the outline of that slightly crooked nose, Tony knows that it’d be so easy to do it, to adore this man with every inch of his being.

“At high tide, this whole beach is under five feet of water.” Steve breaks the silence that’s reigned between them since they parked the Cadillac and carefully crossed the Pacific Coast Highway, and walked down a long, steep set of concrete stairs to reach the wet sand now underfoot. The afternoon high tide has already partially receded, but the shoreline is still narrow. “All you can see are those big rocks out there. Water comes right up to the houses.” 

Tony glances toward the beach cottages behind him, their ocean-facing sides lifted on wooden pylons. They’re ramshackle huts compared to his home, which is a mere twelve miles up the coastline at Point Dume. 

“I drive past this beach all the time, but I’ve never been down here.” Tony focuses out toward the water once more, but not before sneaking another look at Steve. He shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks back a little on his heels. “This is a little out of the way for you, isn’t it?”

“Buck and I went exploring quite a bit when we first moved here. The beach is quiet, and we took a fancy to that diner down the way. Serves breakfast all day.” Steve nods his head toward the bright yellow building perched on an overlook just down the way, the green and white signage reading _Big Rock Beach Café_. “This isn't the only place. Used to go down to the pier in Santa Monica a lot too; closest thing to Coney Island we could find when we were feeling homesick.”

The edges of Steve’s words curve softer and slip broader when he brings up Bucky. Tightness eases in his face that Tony hadn’t even realized was there, and the hunch of his broad shoulders loosens. 

When the bombshell redhead had opened Steve’s door, Tony had assumed her to be the roommate’s gal, but what he’d seen in Steve’s bedroom made him wonder if Steve and Bucky shared more than a mere apartment. He’s jealous already; wanting to stake a claim he has no right to make. 

“Newcomb Pier is a poor substitute for Coney Island.”

“It sure is,” Steve smiles a little at that. 

“So…You and Bucky…” Tony trails off, knowing Steve will get his gist. Steve turns his face toward him, confused for only a moment. 

“No. Not at all.” It’s a confident, absolute refusal, and Tony immediately believes it. “Honestly, he’s more my brother than anything. Been living in each other’s pockets since we were kids. He’s the only family I got.”

“So it’s probably going to matter that he doesn’t seem to like me much.” Tony observes, and Steve tilts his head.

“Should it?”

“Matter? I’d like it to. Doesn't it?" 

Steve doesn't reply. Tony pushes on.

"Admittedly, I’m not usually in the habit of worrying if people like me, but I certainly don’t want your only family to despise me.” Steve bites his lip, brow furrowing in consternation. He seems to be puzzling something out. “Does he know? About your…preferences?”

“That I like men as well as women? I’ve sure as hell never told him.”

“So that can't be the reason, if he doesn’t know about us.”

“What _us_?” Steve asks. He crosses his arms over his chest, but pulling in protectively rather than aggressively standing tall. “Tony, this morning…”

“This morning I was an ass.” Tony pushes his sunglasses up off his nose, perches them on the top of his head. It leaves him squinting in the sunlight like Steve had been before he turned from the water. “I pushed too hard. I do that. You should know that about me right now, up front. I’m not likely to change. Lord knows I’ve tried.”

“You actually mentioned something like that last night over dinner.” Steve sounds sheepish about it, like he should have known better and taken Tony's behavior in stride. “And also, you may have been right. A little bit. About my being scared,” Steve concedes, too kind to even let Tony shoulder all the blame for this whole debacle. Tony’s not having it.

“No, Steve, just forget about the role.” Tony faces him completely, reaching out and setting a hand on his forearm. Steve doesn’t draw back, but he does look down to where Tony curls his fingers over his wrist. Tony’s unsure if it’s because he wants Tony to move his hand or leave it there.

“Because I’ve been thinking about it, and maybe it wouldn’t be such a horrible thing –”

“Forget about the whole movie. That’s not what I want from you. I just…I got carried away is all, thinking about having you in my life in that particular way. That’s not how we have to do things.”

“But it could be.” 

“Steve…” Tony feels like he’s not getting through. “I know I acted like I didn’t care, but I didn’t want you to leave this morning. I wanted to sit down at that tiny table and eat an obnoxiously large breakfast with you, and then go back to bed until one of us absolutely couldn’t stay any longer. I wanted to make plans to see you again before letting you out of my sight. That’s what I wanted.”

“That’s what I wanted too.” Steve smiles faintly and Tony squeezes his arm, smiling back. “And I really do think I want to give this movie thing a try.”

“You said –”

“I know what I said, but it’s not like me to back down from a challenge.”

“You’re serious?”

“I could at least read the script.” Steve shrugs, his smile turning a little sly. “See if it’s worth all this fuss you’re making.”

“Only if you’re sure, Rogers.”

“First you won’t let it go when I turn you down, now you’re second-guessing when I accept?” Steve starts walking up the beach toward the stairway like he’s making to leave, but his tone is gentle and teasing.

Tony huffs in response and follows Steve up to street level, grateful to be walking behind him not only for the view of his magnificent behind, but also to hide how the climb makes his thighs burn and his lungs hurt. They reach the top and Steve’s not even out of breath. 

Tony hates him a little, and wants to kiss him at the same time. 

Steve starts for Tony’s dark blue Coupe de Ville, making like he’s going to toss the keys to Tony so he can re-claim the wheel. Before Steve can throw them or make to cross the highway to the car, Tony stops and gestures down the road. 

“Breakfast all day, you say?” 

When they’re seated in one of the expansive green vinyl booths in the café, Tony’s hat perched on the tableside rack and the ocean stretching out beautiful and infinite beyond the huge plate glass window, Tony dares to reach out and hold Steve’s hand. 

It’s fleeting, the action covered from public view by Tony reaching with his other hand to give Steve one of the bright yellow oversized menus, but it feels like the most important thing he’s done in a very long time.

Steve looks at him over the top of the menu, with its exuberant illustration of seagulls flying and waves crashing against rocks splashed across its front. He stares at Tony for a long, weighted moment, the joy of their brief touch slowly ebbing away.

“It was just one night, Tony. Do you think we’re crazy?” Steve asks, quiet and thoughtful. Tony grins widely.

“Absolutely.”

Maybe he is falling in love with Steve. Maybe Steve’s falling in love with him. 

It’s stupid and it’s dangerous and he’s probably going to screw it all up. They both have to be insane to think it will ever work. 

But right now, Steve is across from him at a table in this diner and they’re going to eat breakfast at four o’clock in the afternoon. 

He picks his own menu up and levels Steve with a serious stare.

“Now. How do we feel about hot cakes?”


End file.
